by Rosie Orr
With a sigh, Jack got to his feet, fished a yellowing Guardian from the pile of old newspapers on top of the fridge, bundled the dripping shards of china and glass into it and dropped the whole mess in the bin. The crash as it hit the horrors already lurking within caused his entire family to swing round and glare wordlessly at him before returning to the row. While Ruth’s attention was diverted he took the opportunity to slip a Budweiser from the fridge. With a bit of luck things would run their course and the twins would bugger off upstairs, taking Charlie with them to teach him a short, sharp lesson, and he’d have a chance to finish sorting Ruth out. He took a long pull at the beer. He’d definitely make his point this time, oh yes, and in no uncertain terms, either.
‘Everybody happy again?’ Ruth hugged the girls briskly, kissed Charlie and patted the dog. ‘There’s sausage and chips, and those breaded onion rings you like. Pack of family fruit trifles in the fridge for afters. Make sure your father –’
‘Oh Mum, he’s not cooking, is he?’ Poppy and Jess regarded him balefully. ‘Gross.’
‘OK, Jack? Instructions on the packets not too difficult for an M.A. Hons in English Literature to follow, I hope?’
She was at the door.
Christ, she wasn’t going already, was she? But he hadn’t had a chance to finish what he had to say! And what was that about breaded onion rings? Surely she didn’t expect him to cook? That was her job, like bringing up the children was supposed to be.
‘But Ruth – I’ve got a pile of essays to mark, and I still haven’t finished my report on last term’s percentages for old Jennings –’
‘And I’ve got a pile of bloody tutoring to do.’
The twins, who’d been drawing lewd diagrams in the spill of brown sugar they’d tipped from the sugar bowl, smirked at him. ‘Call up or text us when it’s ready, OK? And cook the bloody sausages right through this time, or me and Poppy’ll report you to Childline for giving us worms, OK?’
‘Yeah, Childline.’ Poppy narrowed her eyes, looking terrifyingly like Ruth. ‘And we’ll tell them the address.’
Charlie began to cry. Ruth blew him a kiss and told him that if he was very, very good, Daddy would let him help.
Last time she’d made him cook, the fish fingers had still been frozen in the middle when he served them. The twins’ silence had cost him twenty-five pounds apiece.
‘But you’re so much better at it than I am, poppet – and I really am snowed under with work.’ He gestured at his briefcase. ‘Couldn’t you call the Wetherby-Smythes and say you’ll be half an hour late?’
‘Bloody hell, d’you think I want to go out at this time of the evening and bore myself to death for two hours trying to explain basic mathematics to a fourteen-year-old with a brain the size of a dried pea?’ She snatched her bag from the hook on the back of the door. ‘Jesus, Jack – if you’d applied for Head of English at Dulverton High last year I wouldn’t need to be bloody tutoring.’
Jack looked away. The reason he hadn’t applied was because he didn’t want to move away from Anna. He thought of her face – her expression when she was coming, the way she arched her back as she called his name, the way she … He set the Budweiser down forcefully on the table. Da DEE!
‘Look, the reason I didn’t apply –’
Ruth was watching him through narrowed eyes.
Da da da DEE da! ‘I’ve been trying to say this for a while now. Come into the living room and I’ll –’
There was a crash and a screech from Charlie as he reached for the packet of cereal still on the table from breakfast and knocked over Jack’s bottle of beer. Before he could get to it, Spike had shot out of his basket, where he had retreated to sulk, and was lapping up Budweiser like a desperate alcoholic, egged on by the delighted twins.
‘For God’s sake, Jack!’ Ruth dropped her bag, shot over to the dog and grabbed his collar. ‘Can’t you even be trusted with a bloody –’
The girls clapped and whistled as she tried to drag Spike away from the pool of beer. Head down and legs stiffly splayed, he resisted, lapping faster as she tugged.
‘Sorry … sorry …’ He opened the back door, seized Spike and chucked him out into the garden.
Charlie burst into tears again, the twins booed. Ruth washed her hands in the sink. She shot him a furious glance over her shoulder. ‘How the hell could you be so stupid as to leave it there? And then not to make the smallest, slightest effort to stop him drinking it! Can’t you do anything right, Jack?’ She hugged Charlie and reminded him about helping Daddy cook. Jack repressed a groan. Muttering something about ‘things to do’, the twins slid out of the room, nudging each other and giggling.
What was it the Duke of Wellington had said? ‘To know when to retreat – and to dare to do it.’ Poor blighter must have been married to a bitch like Ruth. With a sigh, he took off his jacket, hung it over the chair and rolled up his sleeves. The chipolatas lay like somnolent slugs in their clouded cellophane; they reminded him horribly of limp penises. Taking a knife from the table drawer, he started to slit open the slippery bag of oven chips. With a crow of delight, Charlie grabbed the bag and upended it onto the floor.
‘By the way, Jack,’ Ruth stood by the kitchen door. ‘I know why you didn’t apply to Dulverton.’
He went quite cold; the knife slipped from his nerveless fingers. He turned his head slowly.
‘Because you were too bloody chicken.’ Her lip curled. ‘You just couldn’t face up to the challenge, could you?’
She left the room, slamming the door hard behind her.
He knew it had been a mistake, trying to tell her on one of her teaching nights.
He’d try again tomorrow.
CHAPTER FOUR
Anna peered at her reflection in the tiny mirror in the coffee bar loo, trying to decide whether make-up would improve things. Probably not; it would take more than a dab of mascara and a slick of lip gloss to repair the ravages wrought by too much alcohol and too little sleep. Best leave well alone. Sighing, she scooped the tubes and brushes back into her bag, retied her navy-and-white striped apron and headed back behind the serving counter.
Working fast so that she wouldn’t have time to think about anything except the task in hand, she got the coffee makers started, set out the stacks of crockery, baskets of cutlery and piles of napkins, and put the fruit and vegetables for the salads beside the chopping boards. She was placing an earthenware jug of daffodils beside the till when Trish and Susie, her part-time assistants, strolled in.
‘Blimey, Anna – early bird or what?’ Trish, a plump, shaven-headed graphics student at the local art college, grinned as she hung up her donkey jacket and rolled up her sleeves.
Anna shrugged in what she hoped was a casual manner. ‘I caught the early bus by mistake, think my watch must be fast.’ In fact, she’d left home at half past eight because she couldn’t bear to sit in the kitchen nursing a cold cup of tea and brooding any longer.
‘Oh, it’s awful when that happens, isn’t it?’ Susie, another graphics student, rolled her eyes. Her blonde prettiness was all but obliterated this morning by a thick layer of what appeared to be white undercoat and rings of purple eyeshadow that made her look as if she’d just gone a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson. ‘Much worse than being late.’
Anna laughed. ‘Definitely. OK, could you make a start on the stuff for the fruit salad, Susie? And Trish, today there’s onion tart, parsnip soup and rice salad.’ Trish had a reputation for her witty culinary illustrations, and her first task every morning was to chalk up the specials on the blackboard. While the girls set to work, discussing the shortcomings of the head of the graphics department and musing on painful methods of despatching him, Anna hauled the enormous bowl of rice she’d cooked the previous morning from the industrial-sized fridge and began to prepare the rest of the ingredients.
It was harder not to think about yesterday when she was standing still; no matter how fast she chopped onions and peppers. Images – in technicolour, with
a sinister accompaniment reminiscent of the soundtrack from Jaws – kept popping into her mind. Sam, gazing in horror at her red underwear. Lucy, smiling as she handed her a bunch of tulips. And oh, God, Sam clearing his throat, and saying, ‘Mum, we’ve got something to tell you.’
She picked up another pepper. This one wasn’t as fresh as the others she’d used; she must have missed it yesterday when she made her daily cull of the fridge for any produce past its sell-by date. She was about to throw it in the bin when she looked at it more closely. It was an almost perfect heart shape, a deep crimson colour, rather than the bright scarlet of the other fruit. After a moment she took the knife and cut it in half. A trickle of dark red juice began to seep onto the wooden chopping board. Anna gazed at it for a while; at the seeds clinging to the ventricles of yellowing flesh, like little clusters of withered hopes. Then, digging in her apron pocket, she found a crumpled bill and a stub of pencil and began to write.
She jumped as an elbow dug her sharply in the ribs.
‘Hi, Anna! Sorry I’m late, only Ron let Damien stay up ’til gone one to watch the horror even though it was a bleedin’ school night, so he couldn’t get up this morning could he? Little sod was only tryin’ to make out he had meningitis, wasn’t he? I can tell you he really had me goin’ for a minute there. Then Jade screamed blue murder all the way to play school ’cos I wouldn’t let her take the dead pigeon she found in the gutter for Show and Tell, so we had to stop off at McDonald’s for one of them ice-cream doodahs to shut her up … ’
Roxy, who’d worked for Anna for almost two years and so far hadn’t once arrived on time, shucked off her fun-fur coat, flung it in the direction of the row of coat pegs, fished an apron from beneath a pile of tea cloths, threw a stack of baguettes she’d collected on her way to work onto a chopping board and set to work. Anna never complained about Roxy’s erratic timekeeping, knowing that she always made up for her late starts by doing extra time at the end of her shifts and never refused to work Saturdays. ‘To be honest I prefer it, duck, I’d work Sundays too to if we was open, I mean the kids and Ron under me feet all day? I tell you, the lounge, it’s like a scene from Gladiator by the time Casualty comes on.’
‘Hi, Roxy.’ Anna scooped slices of red pepper into the bowl of rice salad, and tried to smile. ‘A dead pigeon, eh? Still, you’ve got to admit it’d make a change from teddy bears and Sindy dolls.’
‘Teddy bears and …?’ Roxy eyed her incredulously and chopped a baguette into three uneven portions with a flourish. ‘You got to be kidding. It’s all mobiles and tablets these days, love. I said to Ron – Yes, love?’ She hurried to the counter to serve an early customer needing coffee.
Anna gave the rice salad a final stir, covered it with a clean tea cloth and returned it to the fridge. Then she lit the ancient gas oven and drew the trays of onion tarts from the freezer, counting them aloud in a vain attempt to keep the memory of the dread words, ‘I want to invite my father’ at bay.
‘Anna?’ Roxy had given the customer her change and was looking at her curiously. ‘You all right?’
‘Me? Yes, course I am.’ As Anna energetically wiped over the area where she’d been working, the vegetable knife fell to the floor with a clatter, narrowly missing her sandalled foot. She burst into tears.
‘Blimey, what’s up love?’
‘Nothing, I –’ She scrubbed at her eyes with the hem of her apron.
‘Don’t do that, love, you’ll give yourself conjunctivitis.’ Roxy poured coffee into a mug and pressed it into Anna’s hand. ‘Time of the month, is it?’
Anna shook her head.
‘Come on, you know you can tell your Auntie Roxy. Trouble shared is a trouble halved, and that.’ She poked a bright red comb that was threatening to become dislodged firmly into place at the back of her blonde beehive. ‘I felt shitloads better after I told you about Ron’s rash on his dingle that time. I was dead certain it was one of them sexually transmuted things, but you were right on track about changing the washing powder.’
Roxy took a lipstick-smeared tissue from her apron pocket and thrust it at Anna. She took it gratefully and blew her nose.
‘It’s … Sam.’
‘Oh yeah, meant to say; he was in lunchtime yesterday lookin’ for you. Dead flash clobber, and not cheap, neither – I seen that jacket in Topman’s window last week, it was nearly eighty quid. Find you all right, did he? Said him and his girlfriend wanted to take you out for a drink. His birthday, was it?’
‘No. He’s …’ Anna scrubbed hard at her wet eyes. ‘… He’s getting married.’
‘But that’s good news, innit, love?’ Roxy hugged her enthusiastically. ‘I mean ’s’not as if it was a daughter, where you’d be run off your feet trailing round up town looking for a dress and forced to work all the hours God sends makin’ sardine vol au vents and that for the reception.’
Anna managed a watery smile.
‘Get on all right with the girlfriend, do you? Must say she seemed nice enough, though I got to admit I’ve never been a one for gingernuts.’
‘She’s lovely. And Sam adores her –’
‘Just you feel like you’re losin’ a son, not gainin’ a daughter. Don’t worry, love, you’re bound to feel a bit wonky for a few days. Though like I said to Ron the other night after I caught Dean tryin’ to shave his hamster with my Ladyshave, my two can’t leave home fast enough for me.’ She bent and picked up the knife Anna had dropped and exchanged it for a clean one. ‘Tell you what, try lookin’ on it as an excuse for a new outfit. If you like, we could –’
‘Excuse me, I assume the coffee’s decaffeinated?’
A thin, fair-haired woman in a green anorak and floral leggings was staring at the row of steaming Conas accusingly. ‘If not, allow me to tell you precisely why it should be. I’ve just read a most alarming article in the current issue of Nature’s Way. It’s on the same page as the excellent recipe for fig-and-prune smoothie, if memory serves me right, and believe me –’
Roxy rolled her eyes at Anna. ‘Back in a jiff.’ She turned towards the counter with a look of exaggerated interest.
Anna got Trish to scrub down the draining boards, and asked Susie to go out for more supplies of the peppermint teabags there’d been a run on in the afternoons recently. She was sliding the last of the onion tarts into the oven by the time Roxy finally got rid of the woman.
‘Silly bitch. What’s the point of having a coffee if it don’t give you a bit of a buzz?’ She wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Make a start on filling the French things, shall I?’
‘Thanks, Roxy.’
‘So, where was I? Yeah, shopping. We could go round the shops together, if you want. The way I see it, being the bridegroom’s mother’s an opportunity to really go to town.’ She began to smear butter on the baguettes. ‘What d’you want in ’em today, love? Bit of cheese and salad? Few tunas? Couple with that hummus muck for the weirdos?’
‘Great.’
‘I seen a fab leopard-skin coat up the market last weekend. I said to Ron, you’d never know it was fake if it wasn’t electric blue. And there was a hat went with it, like them Russians wear, it’d look dead good with big glittery earrings. I could lend you some if you want, I got hundreds. Crocodile stilettos, and a big matching bag – your boy’ll wet himself he’ll be so proud.’
She squeezed past Anna to get to the fridge, and saw her miserable expression. ‘Hey, it don’t have to be leopard skin if you don’t fancy it, love. They got all sorts –’
‘No, it’s not that, honestly. It’s just … just …’
‘Come on, love, spit it out.’ Roxy opened the fridge and peered inside. ‘I know, it’s the present, isn’t it? Not to worry, I got an idea for that, too.’ She took out several plastic containers, stacked them on top of each other, balanced a couple of lettuces and a cucumber on the summit of the pile, kicked the fridge door shut and stood regarding Anna triumphantly. ‘A Ruby Red Venetian Glass Punch Set with Gilt Effect Engraving, that’s what you
want.’
‘Punch set?’ Anna lifted the lettuces and cucumber from their shaky perch and began to prepare them.
‘Yeah. The Perfect Gift for that Auspicious Occasion. Or you could go for the Lime Green, that’s the one we gave Ron’s mum and dad for their Golden. Talking point or what – you’ll never hear the end of it, once they work out what it is.’ She cut a corner off a piece of Emmenthal and stuffed it in her mouth. ‘Tell you what, I’ll bring the catalogue in tomorrow.’
‘Catalogue?’
‘Argos.’
‘OK. Um … thanks.’
Roxy watched Anna chop a lettuce into smaller and smaller shreds. ‘Present’s not it either, is it love?’
‘No, really, that’s a great idea –’
‘Then how come you’re still lookin’ like you lost a tenner and found five p?’
‘It’s just …’ Anna shoved the pile of almost puréed lettuce to the side of the chopping board and ran a hand through her hair. ‘Oh God, Roxy. Sam wants to invite Tony to the wedding.’
‘Druggie, is he? Still, you can’t stop Sam inviting his friends, love –’
‘He’s not a friend. He’s his father.’ She peeled the cucumber. ‘My ex.’
‘Blimey, you never mentioned an ex before.’
‘I try not to think about him.’
‘Live in Brighton, does he?’
Anna shook her head.
Roxy added slices of cucumber to the tuna-filled baguettes. ‘Sam’s close to him though, I s’pect. My sister Renee’s divorced and she says her kids think their dad’s the bleedin’ tops, what with all them visits up Alton Parks and that every weekend. Stands to reason he’d want to invite him, if you think, love. Probably got up to all sorts together in the last few years, ten pin bowlin’ … go-kartin’ …’
‘Roxy.’
‘Course, age your Sam is it’d be more like paint-ballin’ weekends and that.’
‘Afraid not.’ Anna began to purée the second lettuce. ‘He emigrated when Sam was five.’