by Gill Hornby
‘Well, Mum did say you’d have a new girlfriend by now.’ Shriek, guffaw.
Bennett had a flicker of curiosity as to whether they got on this well all the time, or just when he was here. Then he noticed Sue’s face.
‘How do you know Pat?’ Her smile was bright, but her voice chilly.
‘The Choir—’
‘You’re actually going to that?’
‘Well, yes. I thought it was your idea…’
‘It was.’ Sue pierced a carrot with her fork. ‘To go just the once. I didn’t expect you to want to go back.’
‘Casper,’ he tried another subject, ‘how’s work?’ He was a natural for estate agency, his boy–charming, sunny, keen, brilliant with people, could talk anybody into anything. Bennett often wondered if he was really his child.
‘Lots coming on the market, that’s for sure. All of Bridgeford seems to be selling up. Where to find the buyers from, though–that’s the question…’
Sue looked bored. She was against Casper’s choice of work, still grievously disappointed that he hadn’t gone to university. As she so often pointed out, all of Annie’s children had gone to university. Talk to him, Bennett, she was always saying. Tell him, just tell him. And Bennett did have a go, but his heart wasn’t in it. If he had a son who actively wanted a job and was desperate to earn his own living, well, that seemed to him something of a minor miracle. He was hardly going to meddle with it, try to make water out of wine. Why would anyone do that? And besides, Bennett was now finding his son’s line of business really rather interesting.
‘There is a lot of uncertainty about, what with the new superstore and—’
‘Sorry,’ Sue interrupted. ‘What was that?’
‘Well…’ Bennett reached for more potatoes. Very nice meal this was–slightly more successful than the one Sue made the other week, in his opinion. ‘I’ve been going down to the sit-in most days and got to know all the protesters down there, and they were saying—’
‘You’ve been WHERE?’ Sue put her knife and fork down. She seemed to have lost her appetite.
‘Good on you, Dad,’ Araminta cut in. ‘And this is yu-um, by the way.’
‘The latest commission we got this week was,’ Casper interrupted, looking around the table, ‘promise you won’t tell anyone: the Copper Kettle.’
‘NO!’ Both parents were equally shocked.
‘I go there practically every day,’ wailed Sue. ‘Everyone who is left in bloody Bridgeford goes there every day.’
‘Yes, well, he’s selling up, the old guy.’ Casper seemed rather excited about it. ‘And if we do get that huge retail park, he might as well. The best thing for all those shops in the High Street is to get planning permission to go residential. That’s the future for all town centres, I reckon. The old CK will make a very desirable property.’
‘But they can’t do that.’ Bennett was outraged, really properly outraged. ‘That’s where Jazzy works. That’s a disaster. Oh God. That poor girl. It’s just one thing after the other. What is she supposed to do now?’
‘Jazzy? Pat? Lynn? THE PROTESTERS? Well, get you.’ Sue’s face was bright red now, her neck all hot and mottled. ‘Aren’t you just the Bridgeford socialite? You’ll be throwing a bloody party next.’ They all roared at that one, although Sue’s laugh was more of a sharp-edged cackle.
‘Oh. For my fiftieth, you mean?’ A vision of a little drinks do started to form in his mind. He saw a few of his new friends, a couple of acquaintances, some nice wine… perhaps a bowl of nuts?
‘DAD! You HATE parties! Have you gone COMPLETELY INSANE?’
‘Oh yes, go on, go ahead.’ Sue waved her arms about. ‘Hey–get the caterers in.’ She was radiating heat like a three-bar fire. ‘Put a sodding marquee up in the BLOODY BACK GARDEN. Make it FANCY-FUCKING-DRESS, why don’t you?’ She grabbed a tea-towel and stormed off through the back door. Bennett felt quite shaken, but his children, he noticed, had barely reacted. Casper reached for another helping and Araminta returned quite calmly to her spit ends. Was this what she was always like these days? Perhaps it was nothing new. Perhaps–he couldn’t quite recall–this was what she always used to be like back in their day.
‘Anyway,’ Araminta sighed, ‘what’s all this about a clothes rail?’
Bennett started to clear the plates; he was unsure how to answer. ‘Well,’ he parried, ‘it’s just a clothes rail.’
‘Didn’t go down too well.’ She flicked her eyes towards the garden–where Sue was marching up and down flapping a tea-towel at her face–and up to the heavens before returning them to her hair. ‘Seen as a bit permanent.’ She put on her mother’s headmistress voice. ‘“Moving on”, that’s what she said.’
Bennett was rather loving–almost luxuriating in–this us-against-her intimacy; it was such a beautiful part of their relationship and they hadn’t done it for so long. But he was simultaneously determined to put the record straight.
‘But it’s not! Not at all!’ His voice was raised in excitement. ‘With the easy-glide light aluminium telescopic bar system, it can be erected or dismantled at a moment’s notice—’
‘Dad.’ Araminta gave him a baleful look. ‘Stop. Enough. You’re being really, really boring.’
Sue came back in, restored. Her colouring had returned to normal and she was even smiling.
‘I forgot that I’ve got some top-secret news too, that you mustn’t tell anyone.’ She plucked a potato as the bowl passed her nose on the way to the sink. ‘Annie’s Jess is… pregnant!’
‘That’s nice,’ said Bennett, turning the tap on. He’d been thinking of getting a pet. ‘Puppies.’
Sue laughed, joyously. That was clearly more like it: Bennett getting everything round his neck as usual. She much preferred that. All his sins were immediately forgotten. ‘Jess is not a dog, love. She is Annie’s youngest, whom you have known literally since the day of her birth.’
They were all in fits.
‘Aha!’ Bennett reached for the washing-up liquid, so pleased to be innocently amusing for once. ‘That makes more sense. I really didn’t quite get the whole issue with the tattoo—’
‘She told you’–oh dear–‘about the tattoo?’ Sue was red again.
Tracey needed to get over to the printer on the other side of the room, but it was hard to navigate, with Billy and the contents of the Leckford stairwell all over the floor. She leapt over a few bin bags and landed where Billy was sitting. He had a packet of labels in his lap, a permanent marker in his hand and his tongue out the side of his mouth–evidently he was deep in unfamiliar concentration.
‘Sixty quid?’ she spluttered as she read his childish handwriting. ‘You’re trying to charge sixty whole quid for a rowing machine as old as the Ark?’
Billy looked up, lost and baffled. ‘Not enough? They were loads more on Amazon, and that was without delivery…’
‘They were probably new, love. Also,’ she sounded like a nursery teacher, ‘people don’t come to garage sales for commercial prices. They’ll be expecting a bargain, you see.’
‘Ah.’ His face cleared, and he lifted his marker. ‘Sixty p, then? That more like it?’
She stared at him for a bit, hoping to discern a trace of irony, a cheeky glint in his eye, then surrendered. No glint, cheeky or otherwise; irony-free. Sixty pounds, sixty pence–hey, sixty grand, sixty million–who cared? What was the difference? None, apparently, if you never had to think about earning it.
‘Tell you what,’ he conceded, in the firm tones of an experienced chap blessed with a remarkably sound business sense, ‘I’ll put it up to one pound thirty, because the lava lamp is a fiver.’
Tracey stared at him for a bit, wondering–not for the first time–what on earth went on in that pretty head of his. Still, he wasn’t going to be her problem for much longer; he was Africa’s. Poor Africa–drought, disease and now Billy Leckford. It was, as so many so often said, a beautiful but benighted continent. She would feel a bit guilty, if it wasn’t all
meddling Annie Miller’s fault.
Tracey picked up the lyric sheets and put them in her bag. She was feeling–what was she feeling? Not nervous, of course, and certainly not excited. Christ, no, definitely not excited. Jittery, perhaps. Yes, she was feeling jittery. Bennett had sent her an email–man of action he was, all of a sudden–telling her to pick a song to suit everybody, adapt it and prepare to teach before the election in the tea break. And much to her own surprise, she had found herself–possibly for the first time in decades–actually doing what she was told. She felt she had no choice. This time next week, Billy would be on his way, her stairs would be empty and so, she had to admit, would her… well, her… what was the word she was after… something like, she wasn’t sure… Was it, possibly, ‘life’?
She grabbed her coat, called goodbye to Billy, who was too busy to look up–another man of action, she was surrounded by them all of a sudden–and headed out of the door.
Uh. Stomp. Uh. Stomp. Uh. Stomp. Uh. Stomp.
One of Jonty’s many innovations was the introduction of warm-ups from around the world. He had a book of them, of which he was rather proud. Tonight, they all had their right arms raised by their right ears and were marching in a circle, right foot first, around the hall while reciting a deep, chesty chant. It was, Jonty informed them, a bonding ritual favoured by the herdsmen of Lapland; so far the people of Bridgeford were not terribly keen. Annie winced every time her right foot went down. The gang from the council were making fun of the whole thing. Pat and Lynn were sitting it out–they refused to leave their handbags unattended, because frankly you never knew, and it was tricky being a Lapp herdsman with a bag on your arm–and Jazzy was refusing in solidarity with Katie, even though Katie was being wheeled around and chanting with the rest of them. Tracey was doing it but with a half-hearted, eye-rolling, lip-curled surliness that broadcast her own displeasure. She was wearing skinny jeans and a skimpy grey T-shirt that rode up her back as she marched.
Uh. Stomp. Uh. Stomp.
Meanwhile, Lewis was sitting slumped in his chair, staring vacantly into space. He was a busted flush; a spent force. The glorious era of true democracy was finished and all he was left with were the shattered pieces of his utopian dream. Bennett was in the corner, receiving the names of candidates for the forthcoming break-time elections.
Uh. Stomp. Uh. Stomp.
The rest of them all turned to the centre, pointed their antlers at one another, gave one last guttural, Lappish sort of Aaaagh, found their places in the circle and settled down.
Lewis had tried to start the session with the latest health bulletin from Constance, with one last entreaty to give her another week, but he was howled down–howled down quite loudly, indeed. Having introduced people power to the singers, he now had good cause to regret it. They had embraced the concept all right, but this was the wrong sort of people power entirely. This, this mess, was not what he had ever had in mind. There they were, clattering off in the grip of some pathetic, misguided self-determination that could only end in disaster, when what they should have been doing was exactly whatever Lewis wanted them to do.
Jonty played the opening chords of Sweeney Todd, and Lewis shook his head in despair. Then Bennett shot a sharp look across the hall to Tracey and she leapt to her feet.
‘Actually’–she walked over to the piano and put the music on the stand–‘I thought we might try a slightly different style tonight. If nobody minds.’ She passed around the lyrics and stood in the middle. ‘And if we can just rearrange the chairs a bit, it would be great to try a bit of harmony.’
There was a lot of excited approval as they separated into their voice parts, and a sceptical scowl from Lynn. ‘What’s all this, then? Modern, is it?’ Then she looked down at the lyrics and let rip a squeal of delight. ‘Oh, look. Oh, hooray! Oh, he’s back!’ she shouted across to Pat.
‘WHO’S THAT, LOVE?’ bawled Pat. They were finding it hard to judge the new distance between them.
‘The Lord! We thank Him at the end of the first verse. Oh, I am pleased.’ She settled back into her seat with a satisfied wriggle. ‘I was worried for a moment there, I don’t mind saying. But now,’ she announced, to general indifference, ‘I am pleased.’
People get ready…
Tracey sang through the first verse with soul and passion.
… there’s a train comin’
By the tea break, she had taught half the song in three parts. And there was a beautiful harmonious sense in the room that not only were they all on board, but for once they were travelling in the same direction.
‘OK,’ said Bennett, taking to the centre of the circle and twirling his specs in his left hand. He was wearing a maroon cardigan for a change, which–deliberately or by happy coincidence–gave him a politico-back-room-boffin sort of air. ‘Two pieces of major political news this evening.’
Lewis harrumphed: ‘Oh yes–you defecting to UKIP? You know the way out…’
‘The first is that next Tuesday there is going to be a significant event down at the London Road site. The protesters are expecting the developers to move in sometime that afternoon, so anybody who can be there, please, please join us. This might be our last chance to fight back. It is a crucial day for the future of Bridgeford, and anyone who can be there should be there.’
Lewis couldn’t argue with that, so he sulked instead.
‘And the second is: tonight is the night for the election of new choir officers. Polling is to take place over in the corner there, on top of the pre-school’s fancy-dress box.’ Bennett looked grave. ‘Ballot papers are available from Pat, our returning officer–thank you, Pat, for giving up your break this evening.’ Pat looked important. ‘And the eagerly awaited results will be announced by Pat in the meeting next week. Is that right, Pat?’
‘I think so, love. I’ll have to take them home with me. I can’t really count all of them tonight and I didn’t bring my proper glasses.’
‘We’ll have Dimbleby and the pundits on the telly before that, though, won’t we?’ shouted a bass. ‘Live from the count? Election Special?’
‘And have those pinkos from the BBC all over my nice kitchen?’ Pat shuddered. ‘I should very much think not.’
‘And what about the exit polls?’
‘I urge you,’ Bennett, still solemn, raised his hand and his voice to quell the hilarity, ‘to ignore all exit polls. They are not to be trusted.’
‘Remember April ’92.’ Lewis was now almost on the verge of tears.
‘Here,’ Jazzy cut in. ‘That’s enough. We’re not all bloody ancient.’
‘Thank you, thank you. Shall we settle down now.’ Bennett’s voice was louder still. ‘Refreshments are available and the polling booth is now… OPEN.’
He came and sat down next to a less-than-impressed Tracey. ‘Great. Masterful. Well done,’ she said, rolling her eyes.
‘Thanks,’ he replied sincerely, before whispering out of the side of his mouth, ‘Just to tip you off, there is competition…’
‘Oh. Yes. Good. Of course.’ She nodded, and then dropped her voice to a hiss. ‘I thought you said there wouldn’t be anybody.’
‘It’s fine. Nothing to worry about. Emma has nominated Edward for leader, and Edward has nominated Emma for treasurer, that’s all. Don’t panic. They don’t even live in Bridgeford…’
‘Right.’ She looked over to the fancy-dress box, where an orderly queue was forming.
‘Real democracy in action.’ He patted her arm. ‘The best man will win.’
Annie was pouring tea with her shoulder to Pat and the polling booth. These elections seemed to be going on despite and without her; she was emitting an atmosphere of short shrift.
‘So I’ve heard your news,’ said Maria as she took a cup. ‘One gran, one gra-a-an.’ She did quite a good Bob Marley. ‘Trust A-nnie Miller to be just one gran.’
‘How did you hear that? Maria, keep your voice down. Please. It’s a secret.’ She piled some Jammie Dodgers on a plate.
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‘From my years as a health professional,’ said Maria, helping herself to a handful, ‘I know that babies don’t stay secret for very long… Oh, hello, Tracey. You’ve got my vote.’
‘Thanks, Maria. Can I take one for Lewis as well, ta.’ Tracey piled in some sugars. ‘I thought you’d go in for secretary, Annie. That’s your sort of thing, isn’t it? Admin, notices, lists… knowing what everybody’s up to…’
‘Did you? And where did you think I’d find the time for that?’ Annie hissed, slamming down the teapot. ‘Has it ever actually occurred to you that I don’t want to do every boring little thing around here for everybody?’ She picked up a tea-towel and dried her hands. ‘That I’m not, in fact, a control freak? That I only do it because nobody else will, and if I don’t do it everything will fall to pieces?’ They stared at one another, Annie and Tracey, eyeball to eyeball–on the brink of social catastrophe. But then Annie saw her girls from the altos in the queue just behind Tracey, and as if nothing had happened she set about chatting with and pouring for them.
Jazzy barged up next to Tracey. ‘Let’s have a selfie, seeing as how you’re practically famous. Smile.’ She held up her phone and the flash went off. ‘Everyone’s voting for you, you know.’
‘Even me,’ chipped in Lynn, on her way back for more biscuits. ‘We haven’t all had our heads turned.’
‘Jazzy, love,’ said Maria through a Jammie Dodger, ‘how’s it all going at home? Your mum settling in, is she?’
‘Um, yeah, think so.’ Jazzy nodded and looked thoughtful, which didn’t happen that often. ‘It’s all going OK, ta. You know, I think we’re fine.’
Meanwhile, over at the polling station, Edward was resting his bottom on the table and regaling a delighted Pat with some quite long anecdotes. She barely seemed to notice when the ballot papers were returned to her. Her bag was open and, from time to time, without counting, checking or even looking at them, she shoved another batch in.