Something Blue

by Rosie Orr

  ‘… and Grandma Taylor and Aunt Gwen. Of course, I don’t know if Barbara and Don will be able to make it …’

  Not that she’d want anything so conspicuous. Flowers might be nice, with the merest wisp of black veiling. The sort with tiny velvet dots, she’d always thought they were fabulous.

  ‘… Uncle Mark, and obviously all my friends will be there, and the guys from work. I’m thinking of asking J.T. to be my best man. You remember him, Mum? Same year at Oxford, just been made head honcho at Gunter Prote –’

  ‘Sam, it’s going to be lovely. You know, I’m beginning to feel quite excited.’

  ‘So there’s no problem there.’ He put his hands in his pockets. Took them out again. Cleared his throat. ‘The thing is, Mum –’

  ‘Darling, you’re starving – what am I thinking of? Come and talk to me in the kitchen and I’ll organise the food.’

  ‘Mum?’ He shoved his hands in his pockets again. ‘Going back to Lucy’s family …’

  Smiling, Anna began to put the empty glasses on the tray. ‘Don’t worry, angel, I promise to wear a hat. Now, how about some garlic bread? And I’ll throw together a green salad. Or maybe tomato and basil would be nice?’

  ‘As I said, they’ve got very old-fashioned values. Lucy’s father’s just been made chief warden of St Aloysius. Tina’s a pillar of the Mothers’ Union. They donate God knows how much to the church every year, and at least three of the great-aunts are nuns. Father O’Malley’s always holding them up as the perfect example of the ideal Catholic family, and I …’ He put the half-empty bowl of nuts on the tray. ‘I don’t want to look different.’

  ‘Different? But Don’s doing fine now Barbara’s finally managed to get him to AA, and ever since Grandpa Taylor passed on, Grandma’s been much better behaved.’

  Sam placed the bottle on the tray. Took a nut from the bowl, lifted it to his mouth, put it back again and slowly straightened up. Anna noticed that his hands were shaking.

  ‘Sam? What on earth …?’

  ‘I want to invite my father to the wedding.’

  Anna was suddenly aware of the deep pink of the lilies in their tall vase in front of the fireplace, the sound of a car backfiring in the street, a trail of biscuit crumbs – biscuit crumbs? No, they must be from the crisps – on the polished wood of the coffee table. She bent down slowly. Grasped the handles of the tray.

  When she straightened up, she was smiling. ‘No problem, darling. In fact I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to be invited.’ Her reward was the look of pure relief on her son’s face.

  She handed him the tray. ‘Come on, let’s get that pasta on the go. Lucy’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Sure thing. I’ll grate the parmesan, if you like. Hey, I might even lay the table!’

  He led the way out into the hall. Anna followed him. For now, she’d concentrate on making sure the rest of Sam and Lucy’s visit passed off successfully, and the tomato and garlic sauce didn’t burn.

  Now wasn’t the time to worry about how she was going to cope with Tony, the ex-husband neither she nor Sam had seen or heard from for the past seventeen years.

  There’d be plenty of time for that later.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jack strode purposefully down Beech Avenue in the early evening sunshine, heading for home. Tonight he was definitely going to sort things out: call a spade a spade; put his money where his mouth was; kick ass, and so on. He’d show Anna he could cut it, oh yes. He felt terrible that she’d been so upset at lunchtime. Christ knows, it had been hard enough to get to see her at all – bloody Jennings had tried to force him to take library duty, the old bastard. It had taken all his ingenuity to get out of it. Still, he was pretty proud of the excuse he’d come up with. Not everyone would have thought to say they had an appointment with the chiropodist. Doctor, yes. Dentist, even. But to come up with chiropodist took a pretty cool head, if he did say so himself. He must remember to limp a bit if he bumped into the old buzzard tomorrow.

  After all that to have things go so hideously wrong! Jesus, he hadn’t even got to first base. And she’d been looking more amazing than ever. In fact, just thinking about Anna in that red underwear made him – he groaned aloud. Christ, he could hardly walk. Quick, think about something unpleasant, Jack Teale, and fast.

  Ruth.

  That had done the trick all right. He hoped she wouldn’t be in one of her moods when he got in. If she was, he didn’t stand a hope in hell of getting through. In fact now he came to think of it, wasn’t Thursday one of her teaching nights? Christ, she’d be unbearable. He’d have to put things off till tomorrow. But then what would he tell Anna if she rang in the lunch hour? Maybe he could leave his mobile at home by mistake so she couldn’t get through. No, she’d know – bloody women always had a nose for that sort of thing.

  His step slowed; in a couple of minutes he’d be home. Hell and damnation, he’d been feeling fine until a couple of minutes ago – that Red Bull Geoff had recommended had really done the trick. He’d been buzzing with energy. Maybe he should have another can? Geoff said he often sank a second swift one at half-time when he was coaching the fifth-year rugger buggers. The poor sod could barely stay awake these days what with his new sprog screaming its head off till dawn and his wife refusing to do night feeds.

  Glancing round furtively, he set down his briefcase and pulled the red-and-blue striped can from his pocket. The street was empty apart from some old girl tottering along on her walker on the other side of the street. Ripping off the tab he downed the contents in one long pull, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and settled his spectacles more comfortably on the bridge of his nose.

  That was more like it! That had got the blood coursing pretty smartly round the old veins again. In fact he felt like a million dollars. He’d take Geoff out for a quick one at lunchtime tomorrow to say thanks, and to hell with Sixth Form Chess Club! Now to show Ruth who was boss. Picking up his briefcase, he strode on, humming the theme from Superman. As he passed the postbox (nearly at No 58, now) he gave a fearless laugh and chucked the empty can into the gutter. Da DEE! Da da da DEE da! Put things off? What on earth could he have been thinking of?

  ‘Young man!’

  He’d go straight in the kitchen and say his piece right away. Force bloody Ruth to listen.

  ‘Vandal! Hooligan! Pick that up at once, or I shall report you.’

  The old lady – who must have been moving with astonishing speed, he reflected later – had drawn abreast on the opposite side of the road and stood leaning on her walker beneath a sparsely blossomed cherry tree, waving a palsied fist at him.

  He jumped. Dear God, please don’t let any of the neighbours be looking out of their windows.

  ‘Right away, ma’am, didn’t mean for a moment to … Darn thing just slipped out of my hand –’

  She stood watching him closely as he retrieved the offending can and stuffed it into his pocket.

  ‘Won’t happen again, I assure you, ma’am.’

  What if she reported him to Neighbourhood Watch? Bound to give a good description, old bat obviously had twenty-twenty vision under those inch-thick bifocals. What if it got back to Jennings? He flashed her a placatory smile. ‘Good heavens, look – somebody’s dropped a nasty old burger box, ooh yuck, ugh.’ He picked it up and thrust it in his pocket.

  ‘That’s better, young man. And remember, I’ve got my eye on you.’

  His hand was shaking as he opened his front gate. Hell, this was no good. He was going to have to down another booster if he was going to say his piece to Ruth. Lucky he had more left.

  He hurried up the path and round the side of the house, tripping over his son’s tricycle as he foraged in his briefcase for another can. Old bitch – he’d keep an eye out for her next time he was in the car and sound the horn so loudly the old bat would drop dead of a heart attack. He ripped off the tag, and drank deeply. It would probably take a nuclear explosion to see her off, but it would at least give her a fright, which would cert
ainly make him feel a whole lot better. He polished off the rest of the can’s contents. Wow. That felt great! Da DEE! Da da da DEE da!

  Chucking the empty can and burger box into Spike’s kennel (checking casually to see if it was empty first, of course – no sense in buying trouble), he went round to the front of the house, opened the front door with a masterful air and went inside, wincing as a wall of sound hit him. From upstairs came the thudding backbeat of whichever group the twins currently favoured; from the living room the soundtrack of some American cartoon blared, accompanied by Spike’s frenzied barking. As he dropped his keys in the cracked ceramic bowl on the Spanish pine chest, he noted fresh scratch marks gouged into the delicately carved lower panel. Why the hell had they bought Charlie that mini-scooter for Christmas? Because he’d have screamed blue murder whenever the ruddy advert came on if they hadn’t, that was why, and because he’d have soiled his Finding Nemo duvet cover every night for the next six months to teach them a lesson. As soon as he’d informed Ruth of his intentions, he’d sort Charlie out, starting with getting him to bring in his tricycle when he’d finished playing – he could have broken his leg. Hell, he could have broken both legs.

  OK. He stripped off his mac and headed for the coat stand, his progress impeded by the litter of sequinned bomber jackets (the twins) and small brown and navy padded anorak from Mini Boden (Charlie) strewn over the carpet. As he kicked aside a pink PVC garment with ‘SLITS RULE OK’ picked out in glitter on the back, he reflected that a casual visitor might have supposed the house to be inhabited by prostitutes and midget workmen. It simply wasn’t good enough. Before he gave Ruth the news about his imminent departure, he’d give her a piece of his mind about the mess in the hall. And everywhere else in the house, for that matter. And as for the noise! He strode to the bottom of the stairs and yelled the twins’ names. No reply. Hardly surprising, they’d probably both gone completely deaf by now. He’d wait till they came down for supper, then by God he’d let them have it. As for Charlie, he could turn that racket down right now, and stop whatever he was doing to the bloody dog. Picking up his briefcase, he headed for the living room and pushed open the door.

  His small son was crouched on the floor, his back to the television, gripping the writhing Spike tightly with one hand and doing something in the region of the dog’s muzzle with the other. With one stride Jack was at the television. Switching it off, he turned to Charlie. ‘Just what the hell is going on in here? Either keep the sound down or it stays off, right, Charlie? And stop whatever it is you’re doing to Spike, you can see he doesn’t –’ At once his son burst into furious tears, saying, or rather babbling, in Jack’s opinion no five-year-old could be said to talk, that a) he had been watching, it was his favourite and it wasn’t fair, and b) he and Spike were playing a game, and that wasn’t fair either, and c) he hated his father. To back up this information he threw himself flat on his back and began to scream at a pitch Jack had hitherto assumed only bats could hear, simultaneously drumming his heels hard on the floor.

  Spike shot behind the sofa, barking louder than ever.

  Right. Maybe this wasn’t the best moment; the boy was probably hungry. Or thirsty. Or tired, yes, that could be it. He’d speak firmly to him later about the tricycle – very firmly, no question about that. Meanwhile, he’d switch the television on again, though not too loudly, one had to take a stand – and give Spike a stern warning. As he left the room and set off down the passage to the kitchen, he tried not to notice that the television sound had been turned up again to full volume, and that Spike’s barks had not diminished.

  Now for Ruth. After the little contretemps with Charlie, he was in no mood to be trifled with, as she’d certainly find to her cost if she gave him any trouble. Da DEE! Da da da – how did the rest go? No matter; he was already at the kitchen door. Deep breath. Push it open with a manly gesture, and –

  ‘Where the hell have you been? Christ, can’t you ever get home on time?’ His wife bent over the dishwasher, tugging irritably at a dangerously overloaded wire tray. She didn’t look up.

  He slammed his briefcase down on the nearest chair, not noticing the heap of DVD’s already in occupation. Several slid to the floor with a dull thud. Ruth glanced irritably over her shoulder. ‘You know those are from the library, I take it? And that any damage has to be paid for?’

  He started to pick them up, then stopped himself; he had more weighty matters to address. He folded his arms magisterially. ‘There’s something I have to say, Ruth –’

  With a crash, the tray came loose from its moorings, decanting most of its contents over the floor. Broken crockery awash with an unidentifiable grey liquid spilled over the already greasy tiles.

  ‘Now look what you’ve made me do!’ Ruth swung round to face him, her face tight with anger. She ran a hand through her newly cropped black hair. He knew it was fashionable, but it made her look harder, somehow, and gave her an unnervingly insect-like appearance. For the briefest of moments an image of the way Ruth had been in the early days flashed through his mind: her delicate features and clear, pale skin; her warm brown eyes; her cap of black curls; her interest in everything, her delightful laugh. The image of Audrey Hepburn, his father used to say, with a grin that said lucky chap. Where had it all gone? When had it changed? One thing he was damn sure of – it wasn’t down to him, no sirree.

  ‘I told you we should have bought the Zanussi – it’s bloody useless, this.’

  Hell, she was still rabbiting on. He was pretty sure of something else – if his father was still alive he wouldn’t be grinning at him now. Forget Kay Kendall – one of the warders in Prisoner Cell Block H was more the mark these days …

  ‘Just because it was a few quid cheaper! Bloody typical. Well, you can clean this lot up yourself, I’m off in twenty minutes and I haven’t even planned the little bastard’s lesson yet.’

  Time to get a grip. Let’s see … DEE da! Yup, that was it. Now, where had he got to?

  ‘– something very important.’

  ‘Important? I’ll tell you what’s important.’ She crouched down and foraged in the cupboard under the sink. Jack tried not to notice the way her green wool skirt emphasised her boyish shape, her lack of curves, so different from Anna’s body, though he mustn’t think about that now. Too late – the old trouser-snake was already reacting … He edged behind the table.

  ‘What’s important is that I’m not late to teach Quentin Wetherby-bloody-Smythe compound fractions in the hope that with the grace of God and a fair following wind the little shit will pass his GCSE in a couple of months and his grateful parents will give his bloody tutor a bonus.’ She backed out from under the sink and hurled a pungent floor cloth at Jack. ‘So that said tutor will be able to shell out for the next electricity bill. Got it?’

  He knelt, with difficulty, and began to clean up the mess. ‘Look Ruth, this can’t wait.’

  She turned away, and began taking packets of food from the fridge and throwing them down on the table. ‘Neither can the kids’ tea.’

  He cleared his throat and ran a finger round the back of his collar. ‘Onward, onward into the shadow of death rode the six hundred.’

  ‘I’ve decided I’m leav –’

  As she dumped a packet of oven chips on the table, she glanced up. Her eyes narrowed. ‘What the hell have you done with your tie?’

  Tie? What was she talking about? Suddenly he had a mental picture of himself in Anna’s kitchen, pulling off his tie as she … He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again he saw with a sudden loosening of the bowels that Ruth was standing over him, so close he could see the whiteheads on her chin.

  ‘My mother gave you that tie, Jack. I know you were wearing it when you left this morning because I noticed the egg stain on it, so where is it now?’

  He could feel the blood drain from his cheeks. Think. Head bent, he scooped the broken fragments of glass and china into an untidy pile. Think! Christ, if only he had another Red Bull in his brief
case …

  ‘Er … yes. Afraid I had to lend it to Geoff.’

  ‘Geoff?

  ‘One of the games staff.’

  ‘Why, pray?’

  ‘Because he had to er … go to a funeral. Yes. Of a friend.’

  ‘But it’s not a black tie.’

  ‘Er … no. They weren’t very close friends.’

  ‘But –’

  There was the sound of pounding feet in the passage and the kitchen door was thrown open. It banged against the faded yellow wall behind it, deepening the already sizeable hole in the plaster. Charlie hurtled in, followed by the maniacally barking dog. He threw himself at his mother’s legs, wailing something entirely incomprehensible to Jack. Really, it was too much; he was going to have to assert himself here. ‘Charlie, your mother and I are trying to have a little talk here, and I’d appreciate it if –’

  Ruth scowled at him. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Jack –’ The door shot open again and the twins erupted into the kitchen, identical expressions of outrage on their heavily made-up fifteen-year-old faces. They threw themselves down at the table. At least he could sort them out. He got to his feet. ‘Right girls. I’ve said this before and I’m saying it again; the noise from your bedroom is entirely unacc –’

  Ignoring him, Jess turned to Ruth. ‘Mum, tell the little shite we’ll kill him –’

  ‘Language, girls, please.’ Ruth frowned. ‘I’ve told you before, it’s not big –’

  ‘Yeah, too right, kill him –’ Poppy drew a forefinger sharply across her throat.

  ‘If he goes into our room again.’

  ‘Too right.’ The younger by ten minutes, Poppy always acted as support act to her sister.

  ‘… and it’s not clever.’

  A noisy exchange ensued between Ruth and the twins from which it became apparent that Charlie had filched the girls’ new gold eyeliner, sneaked it downstairs and applied it liberally to Spike’s eyelids, or as close to Spike’s eyelids as the frantic dog would allow him to get.