The Mercury Travel Club: Getting your life back on track has never been more funny!

by Helen Bridgett

  One day to go: this time tomorrow night, the performance will be over, thank goodness. That’s the good news; the bad news is that Patty, Craig and Double Duran, in fact everyone I know, has been tweeting about this gig. Maybe it’ll rain tomorrow and no one will turn up. Oh Lord, that would be worse, wouldn’t it? Charity left destitute by failing Granny-Okes.

  * * *

  The day of reckoning and needless to say, I awake having not slept much at all. But there’s no turning back, we have to get on with it.

  Costume – check; Zimmer frame – check; wig – check. I am ready.

  We arrive and the club is heaving, although that isn’t much of an achievement as it is quite small. I am quietly relieved that it’s busy; empty would have been humiliating and the charity will make some money at least. Backstage, the girls are buzzing and soon it’s time to go on.

  We go on in our big cardigans and Zimmer frames, thick support tights drooping around our ankles and spectacles draped around our necks. We look a bit fragile and puzzled by the audience as ‘There’s No One Quite Like Grandma’ plays in the background. The three singers line up behind the mikes; I sit down on a stool at the side of the stage and take up my knitting.

  ‘Ooh, look at all these lovely people,’ says Patty. ‘Shall we sing something for them?’

  We Granny-Okes nod enthusiastically and pull our tights up.

  The opening chords of ‘Like a Virgin’ start up; the girls bob up and down like little pistons then Kath shouts, ‘Ooh I think I know this one.’

  They throw off their cardigans to reveal their outfits and launch into the first track of our first gig. I watch and am absurdly proud of my friends.

  The audience get into the spirit; it’s a bit of fun and everyone can see that. I don’t do much to this track, just knit and bob my head.

  The next track is another eighties classic with an intro that everyone knows, Bon Jovi’s ‘Livin’ On A Prayer’.

  This is Sheila’s big number; she lets it start, gets very animated, and as we reach the chorus, she lifts her Zimmer and starts playing it like an air guitar. The crowd love it, everyone is joining in and I can see mobile phones flashing away.

  I’m supposed to get up and join her in a granny rock duet but quite frankly the act doesn’t need it, so I stand up and do a little twerk (as instructed by the video we watched). I then sit back down and mop my brow. I don’t think anyone even noticed me, thank God.

  My heart is pounding; I got up and survived. I get out a bag of mint imperials and offer them to a couple of people in the front row. As I’m having a little look around, I see Charlie who smiles and waves at me. I give a quick wave back but my attention is drawn to the back of the room where Alan is standing with Amanda; he seems to be enjoying things and raises his glass to me, at which point Amanda walks away. He doesn’t follow; he looks at me and shrugs his shoulders. I don’t know what this means and I don’t have time to react as the girls are on their final number. It’s ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun’ and all of us are swaying along with Granny Lauper taking the lead and enjoying her moment thoroughly. She’ll be back, I can tell.

  We finish, take our bows and leave the stage buzzing. Craig is beaming as he embraces Patty. He suggests going to watch Duran and having a nightcap together. I don’t want to risk bumping into Alan so tell everyone that I’ve had enough excitement for one night.

  And I have. As I lie in bed reliving the evening, I’m so relieved that it went well but would feel even better if I knew I never had to do it again.

  There seems little chance of that; my phone hasn’t stopped buzzing with congratulatory text messages, including one from Alan which doesn’t have an x on the end, but I imagine he wouldn’t want something like that to be found out. I’ve deleted it anyway. Patty calls and is beside herself; Craig has told her he can definitely find us more gigs so I think she’s now planning festival domination.

  Fortunately Zoe wasn’t there; unfortunately she’s still focused on baking domination.

  What’s that expression? Out of the frying pan, into the fire?

  And on We Go

  I’ve been utterly exhausted this week, a real come-down after the gig. Charlie has been asking me about the business venture and I feel awful that I haven’t looked over it properly. I don’t ever seem to get the time.

  Tonight was baking night, and not just baking but ‘baking like a pro’. These people are demons, so competitive with their cupcakes. I can’t understand when baking became an Olympic event. It was something we did with our mums to pass the time on a Sunday; it wasn’t a source of conflict. If your cake didn’t rise, it got covered in custard and became a trifle – simple.

  The teacher is talking about glycerine and I seem to be the only one confused.

  ‘Isn’t that what you make explosives with?’ I whisper to Zoe. ‘This is getting a bit serious.’

  ‘That’s nitro-glycerine, Mum.’ She doesn’t take her eyes from the tutor.

  As we whisk our Victoria sponge mixtures, I spot the pupils eyeing each other up trying to work out who will be the worst, and needless to say, it’s me. My cake comes out as flat and hard as a Frisbee and although I’m tempted to skim it across the class to lighten the mood, they force me to ice it.

  When we get home, I open the back door and throw it out, declaring, ‘Here you go birds, an evening treat.’

  I throw it at the bird table expecting it to shatter into spongy pieces; instead, the weight of it knocks the whole table over and even the fattest pigeons scarper in fear.

  ‘You’ll be better at the crumbles,’ Zoe reassures me through a mouthful of her own feather-light creation.

  My heart sinks like the centre of my cakes at the thought of going again.

  It’s late when Patty rings with the great news that we have another gig. This is followed by Zoe confirming that she has the application form for the competition. I murmur meekly at both and wonder how on earth I’m going to extricate myself without hurting anyone’s feelings?

  It’s raining, a spring shower heavy enough to force a day indoors. It doesn’t seem to matter how many years pass, this type of weather always takes me right back to being twelve years old. Watching the drops race down my bedroom window, making mental bets as to which raindrop would win; the chill that falls both because of the weather and the end of the weekend. School lay ahead and there’d be no more playing out today.

  There was always a Western on TV, or it seemed that way. I flick through the TV channels now and find one amongst the plethora of murder mysteries and paranormal dramas. Nowadays if you’re not investigating the dead, you’re romancing the undead.

  For the first time this week, I don’t have to be anywhere or do anything: no singing and no baking. I’m glad; this is good thinking weather. I curl up on the sofa and surround myself with everything I’m likely to need for the next few hours: a throw, hot chocolate, a notebook and pen.

  It’s so good to have this moment after the rollercoaster of last week. Can it really all have happened in such a short space of time? It seems like someone else’s life.

  I read through the business plan we’ve written. To achieve this would mean giving up everything, all the other distractions, as I can’t do another week as exhausting as this. I’d have to say no to Patty and spend less time with Zoe. I may be letting them both down badly, but on the other hand, I could let myself down even more if I don’t.

  Rather simplistically, I decide to make a list of pros and cons; I don’t get far and wake up two hours later from the deepest sleep in weeks. I’m lying in the exact same position and my notebook and pen are still in hand; I’ve written nothing but I know who I need to speak to.

  When I call Mum, she asks why I’m not consulting my ‘life-coach-thingy’.

  ‘I’m impressed you’ve heard of them,’ I answer.

  ‘Of course I have. I’ve been to the self-harm section of the bookstore too,’ she tuts.

  ‘I think you mean self-help, Mum.’
/>   ‘Whatever you say; it’s still my advice you want.’

  I have to meet her in a department store café as Monday is ‘free coffee for pensioners’ day and as she likes to say, ‘If they’re giving it away, who am I to say no?’

  We don’t talk until she’s comfortably seated, able to watch all of the regulars and comment upon their consumption.

  ‘See her over there? Been ordered to lose two stone and yet still gets a cream cake every Monday, someone should tell her doctor.’

  I glance at the lady in question; the place is full of seventy-year-olds getting their free cuppa.

  ‘And he lost his wife last year, poor soul.’ She waves and he waves back. ‘Nice man.’

  She takes a sip of coffee and then sits back in her chair, like an oracle on her throne.

  ‘So what’s wrong, sweetheart?’

  This year spills out – it’s been great, I’ve done so many new things and met lots of new people. Now, Patty wants me to sing with her, Zoe wants me to become chef of the year, Charlie wants me to go into business and I seem to be saying yes to all of them. I’ve tried on so many hats this year and now I’m not sure which one I want to wear.

  ‘You sound like Mr Ben,’ she laughs. ‘Remember him? Used to go into the changing rooms and come out as something different every week. I quite fancied doing that.’

  It wasn’t quite the sympathetic advice I was looking for from my mother but she has a point.

  ‘And even Alan came to the gig. I’m not sure if that means he might want to come back?’ I add.

  ‘I bloody well hope not, after all he’s inflicted on my girls.’

  She pushes her cup and cream scone to one side then fixes a look.

  ‘It seems like he’s going through one of them man-o-pause things. Needs to realise his mistake by himself, not have you trying to work out what he wants. Forget him,’ she says.

  ‘And if you’re thinking that Patty will disown you for not singing, you’re wrong. There’ll be more room on the stage for her if you get off; she’ll thank you in the end. And as for being less of a mother for not going to cookery classes, think again; that ship sailed a long time ago.’

  ‘Gee thanks,’ I reply.

  She takes a sip of coffee and wipes her mouth; mine is still ajar from all the tough love just dispensed. She has a remarkable insight into my entourage.

  ‘All I’m saying is that these things are what other people want to do, and good for them. Having you there alongside them makes it less scary for them but at the end of the day it’s their dream not yours. Now tell me about Charlie.’

  I tell her all about the travel club and Charlie’s offer. I’m surprised how excited I am when describing it and how I’m sure it could work.

  ‘So what’s stopping you?’ asks Mum.

  When I think about this question, the answer is very simple: after so many years of being in a couple and having someone to make decisions with, I just want someone to tell me I should do it. I need permission.

  ‘Tell me to go for it, Mum,’ I say.

  ‘As long as there are some cheap deals for pensioners.’ She goes back to her scone and gives half to me. ‘I don’t dish out this advice for free you know.’

  I’m definitely not drowning any more.

  Howdy Partner

  I give Patty the news that I can’t sing any more but I promise to advertise their gigs in the store and then I beg Zoe not to make me go to any more cookery classes. Given the nerves I feel before telling them both, I’m surprised when they both take the news rather well. Too well. Mum was right about Patty – she tells me that my departure is no problem as ‘to be honest, Bo, it’s quite difficult to fit four people on the small stages we get offered’. The act (i.e. my dearest friend) has more room to breathe now.

  Most importantly, I tell Charlie that I want to give the business a go. He has the paperwork drawn up and it’s there waiting for me to sign. It’s still strange seeing the name Angela Shepherd staring back at me, it still looks like someone else. I practise my signature a few times and warm the pen up so that the ink flows smoothly. I don’t want to look back on this document and see hesitation or uncertainty. After a few attempts, I’m ready and I swirl my given name boldly, as large as the space allows. The final full stop is a promise to myself to give this all I have.

  I’m an entrepreneur.

  Within a few weeks, we have launched our new partnership.

  I feel very different as I walk to the shop, my shop, on launch day. I am definitely walking on sunshine – so the song goes. I have new shoes, businesswoman shoes, pointy and shiny with killer heels, and today they don’t hamper my ability to skip down the high street one iota.

  Charlie is already there and gives me a big hug.

  ‘Howdy partner,’ he says.

  I just smile; it feels good.

  We work flat out for the next fortnight. First of all, we give the place a spruce up and nearly come to blows with the ‘decorator slash designer’ (who uses these inverted commas and the slash while talking about himself).

  ‘What colour says adventure to you?’ he begins, getting out his swatches.

  ‘Blue?’ I venture. ‘As in ocean.’

  ‘To me it’s the colour of the Sahara, the earth, the spices of India.’

  He goes off on one and whisks out a selection of colours for me to approve; they’re exotically named, ‘Turmeric’, ‘Distant Lands’, ‘Moroccan Dust’, ‘Toasted Maiden’. OK so I made the last one up, but I bet it exists in some paint collection.

  ‘Lovely names, but at the end of the day – they’re all brown,’ I tell him.

  I know by bitter experience that you can be seduced by the names and the fashions in the magazines but if you paint your room brown, you’ll hate it by the end of the week, month if you’re the patient type. Besides which, the shop is orange at the moment (yes, the colour of the sun seemed a good idea back then) and brown isn’t enough of a change.

  I insist that he explores the adventure to be found in the oceans and the skies because I know that he won’t settle for being told to paint it blue, especially when he has to get it all done in a week. We find a compromise having spent far too long agreeing that the oceans of the Caribbean are turquoise-green. We settle on Pantone 319.

  Next, I have to develop the calendar of holidays; we decide the calendar will change every year and culminate in a big New Year trip. Charlie thinks that having customers on a high in December will ensure that they book up for the next year. So Charlie, Caroline and I sit down one evening and finalise trips for each month of the year. I watch them laughing away at one point and feel the most enormous sense of pride; I’m one of them now, a local businesswoman struggling against the tide of globalism. Or a passionate individual making ends meet by sharing the thing that brings them most joy; that sounds better. Globalism always makes everyone feel guilty: we like the idea of small businesses but supermarkets are always a damn sight cheaper. I can only hope that they don’t start selling holidays.

  And so on to the launch of the Mercury Travel Club. In an hour or so Charlie and I are doing a ribbon cut for the Chronicle. We’ve raised some money to send some local carers on a weekend break and everyone who comes in will get a little brochure explaining the club. Caroline is doing the same in her shop, Peter is telling all of his businesses and Josie is putting it on Twitter, Pinterest and Facebook. We’re all doing our bit, so fingers crossed.

  All morning I answer messages asking how things are going; customers tell us it looks interesting and we get lots of good luck messages from friends. It feels very exciting and although I know there’s no chance of being fully booked up by lunchtime, I hope to have one booking at least. And a booking from one of us wouldn’t count.

  I am so anxious for someone to book up today; it’s completely illogical but I keep thinking that if we get a booking on the first day, it will mean that everything will go well. Now, who can I get to book something?

  I scour our local directory
to try to find clubs that might be interested; there are an incredible number of social groups around here. Mum’s groups obviously but also Men In Sheds – for men to discuss their problems (like how to keep the remote from their wives, I imagine) – folk dancing and knitting groups.

  There is also a local wine school. Now why didn’t I know about that earlier and why doesn’t Patty know about it? You can take qualifications in wine drinking; I can’t wait to tell her, she’ll probably qualify as a professor in no time at all.

  They have to be a good target for the travel club, so I ring up the organiser then email through the calendar of events. I tell her we have just launched today and that we have an opening offer for members of the school. She promises to email everyone she knows and when we’ve finished talking I get straight on to the wine merchants and blag the discounted case of Bordeaux I’ve just promised.

  I can’t keep hitting ‘refresh’ to see if anyone has booked or I’ll do nothing else all day. I focus and get on with the day job. In the end we have quite a successful morning with late bank holiday bookings. It isn’t until late afternoon that Charlie looks up cautiously.

  ‘Well, we’ve got a booking,’ he says.

  I run over to his desk, wondering why he’s not more excited. I scan the screen for the details.

  It’s the very name I’d prefer not to see: Alan Hargreaves + 1.

  Crystal Balls

  ‘Oh forget him, just take his money and treat him like any other customer,’ is Patty’s practical but harshly given advice.

  ‘Let’s talk about me instead,’ she adds.

  I can’t help but smile. When did we stop?

  ‘I’ve decided where we’re going for my birthday.’ She pauses for dramatic effect.

  ‘The Chippendales, a karaoke or the Firemen’s Benevolent Ball?’ I ask.