Something Blue

by Rosie Orr

  Roxy stared at her. ‘He never.’

  ‘Said he needed to find himself.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘He liked to think of himself as an Artist. Unfortunately, a third-class degree in graphic design isn’t really adequate qualification for acceptance into the higher echelons of the art world.’ She grinned. ‘Or even the lower echelons, come to that. Anyway, after he’d failed to get an offer from a single gallery he had a string of jobs in crappy design agencies. Got “let go” by all of them, and after that, things at home went from bad to worse. I woke up one morning to find a note on his pillow saying he’d gone to Australia “a country where his talent would be appreciated”, to “follow his destiny” without “the shackles of family life” holding him back.’

  ‘Been watchin’ too much of that Crocodile Dundee, by the sound of it.’

  ‘Anyway, we haven’t seen or heard from him since. Unless you count a postcard a year or so after he left. Since then, zilch.’

  The postcard hadn’t even said ‘wish you were here’. Anna turned away and pulled a couple of large tins from a cupboard. ‘Stick the baguettes in a basket and put them on the counter, would you, Roxy? Thanks.’ She removed several cakes from the tins and began to slice them.

  ‘Blimey.’ Roxy was silent for a while as she fought the baguettes into an untidy heap and transferred them to a basket. ‘But if he was such a doober, why did you …?’

  ‘Usual story. We were at the same art college – I was studying fabric design. I got pregnant after a party.’ She shrugged. ‘We just sort of drifted into getting married. Our parents encouraged it, Tony was handsome … ’

  ‘Yeah, Ron was a looker when I met him, dead ringer for Elvis.’

  ‘It was OK at first, I suppose, except he wouldn’t let me take any of the jobs I was offered.’

  ‘Ooh, you got your certificate, then, did you?

  Anna nodded. She’d got a starred first, and been deluged with offers of work from top-level design companies, all of whom would have been happy to continue to employ her on a part-time basis after the baby was born. Tony had refused point blank to let her take up any of them; no child of his was going to have an absentee mother. Or, Anna had thought, but restrained herself from saying, a child whose mother was more successful than his father.

  ‘Somehow things just went from bad to worse.’

  The rows escalated; in the end Anna gave in. The next five years were a nightmare. Sam was a sickly child, suffering from a series of infections that made him scream non-stop; Tony was incapable of holding down a job for more than a week and made it crystal clear that he blamed his failure on his wife and child. Apparently he was under so much stress that it was simply impossible for him to create.

  ‘In the end, it was almost a relief when he went.’

  ‘I can imagine. So how’d you manage?’

  ‘It was too late by then to get back into design. There was too much new technology I’d missed out on. Still, we had to eat, and the bills were piling up –’

  ‘The bugger never sent you no money, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Rotten bastard. Still, bears out what I always say, dunnit?’

  Anna looked enquiring – there were a lot of things Roxy always said.

  ‘Shits, the lot of ’em. I mean look at Ron, useless bugger. Soon as I’ve saved enough from me wages here, I’ll be off.’

  Anna tried not to smile. Despite Roxy’s constant denigration of the hapless Ron, it was clear from the affectionate remarks that occasionally slipped out that she could no more have lived without him than without her three equally maligned offspring.

  ‘Anyway, a couple of weeks after he’d gone I saw an advert for a coffee-bar assistant in the Evening Argus. Sam was back at school by then. For some reason his health cleared up like magic as soon as Tony left. So …’

  ‘Excuse me, miss. Is anyone actually serving here?’ An elderly clergyman with a face like a malevolent rat stood tapping a copy of the Church Times impatiently on the counter.

  Roxy grinned at Anna. ‘And from there it was straight to the top, eh?’ She turned to the clergyman, looking serious. ‘So sorry, your worship. My colleague and me was just discussing the relevance of religion, if any, to modern life. I don’t know, the Ten Commandments …’ She slapped her thigh. ‘Don’t you just love ’em?’ She resumed her serious look again. ‘Now, what can I help you with?’ She started to list the entire menu, ignoring him whenever he tried to interrupt.

  Anna concentrated hard on cutting up a ginger cake, and let her thoughts drift back to Life After Tony. It had been tough, but at least she had the satisfaction of knowing she’d brought her son up single-handed without so much as a Good Luck card from his father, let alone regular child support. Somehow she’d always managed to scrimp together enough for Christmas and birthday presents, and once she’d even managed to send Sam on a school trip to France. True, she could rarely afford to buy new clothes for herself, and the nearest she ever got to a holiday was the day trip to London she allowed herself once every summer, when she visited all the free exhibitions and bought a cheap ticket for the Proms. But she’d coped, and she was proud of it.

  ‘That’ll teach him.’ Roxy watched the clergyman totter off clutching a tray. ‘Them flapjacks ought to give his dentures a serious workout.’ She picked a slice of crystallised lemon off the top of a slice of ginger cake and ate it. ‘It’ll be all right, love. Chances of young Sam managin’ to track his father down after all these years must be about zero. Even if he did, there’s no way the bugger’d have the brass neck to accept the invitation after the way he’s treated you. Speakin’ of which, how come young Sam’s so keen to make contact if he knows what a tosser his dad is?’

  ‘He doesn’t. I never told him what happened. He thinks his father really was a genius, and really did have to go and follow his star. Better that than letting him know what a feckless, irresponsible bastard he was.’ She lifted a cake from the other tin.

  ‘Hello hello hello? Is that a cherry gateau I see before me?’

  Anna smiled as she saw the man leaning against the counter. ‘Hi, Barry. Nice to see you. Coffee?’

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘Slice of cake?’

  ‘You read my mind. Hey, love the photographs.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Barry looked nonplussed. ‘The exhibition?’ He gestured at the walls.

  ‘Oh, sorry. Good, are they?’ She handed him his coffee.

  ‘Well, I certainly think so. Very moody and intense – enormous emotional impact. Hard to tell what the actual subjects are, as a matter of fact. Could be a stone on a beach, could be a woman’s … er … flesh, might be abstract, or …’ He blushed. ‘Not.’

  ‘Sounds interesting. Afraid I haven’t had a chance to look properly yet.’

  ‘Oh good heavens, no, yes, well I mean of course …’

  Anna grinned. ‘Barry, cake. Enjoy.’

  ‘Mmm, yes, scrumptious, looks delish.’ He slipped onto one of the counter stools and took an enormous bite. Crumbs cascaded down his navy puffa jacket. ‘So, how’s the work going? We’ll see you at Piers on Sunday night, I hope?’

  ‘You bet. Wouldn’t miss it for anything.’

  Pier Poets was a group of local writers – a couple of them talented, one already published – who met in the Golden Galleon, a small Victorian pub on the seafront. Every other Sunday night the group got together in the snug to read new work and share information about the latest happenings on the national poetry scene. Criticism and encouragement were offered in equal measure, and in the five years or so in which Anna had been attending her work had achieved a new depth and authority. She remained conscious only of the limitations she had yet to overcome.

  ‘I can’t tell you how much I admired the sonnet you read last time. The way you stood the statement in the first quatrain on its head in the final couplet! Brilliant! Quite brilliant! I said to Naomi on the way home – she begged a lift, her Mini�
��s in for new brake shoes, apparently – the use of irony quite dumbfounded me. Put me in mind of Spenser, as a matter of fact. I particularly admired the way you went for images that underlined the point that love –’

  Anna poured a coffee and pushed it towards him, grateful for his praise and wishing that she found him more attractive. Recently divorced (rumour had it at Pier Poets that his wife had run off with her Pilates instructor), kind, solvent – he owned one of the town’s best bookshops – he possessed excellent critical faculties and was one of the group’s founders. The trouble was, thought Anna, as she pushed the sugar bowl towards him, thinning red hair and freckles just weren’t sexy. The out-sized quilted jackets he favoured didn’t help much, either. She considered him now, narrowing her eyes so that his shape blurred, wondering whether a grey tweed jacket with leather patches would help matters. Tears suddenly threatened, and she stopped herself quickly.

  ‘… increasingly wide range. Such a contrast to the yearning tones of last week’s sestina –’ He broke off and stood staring at her, a slow tide of blood suffusing his pale features.

  What on earth was the matter with him? Was he having a hot flush? Maybe he was trying to give up sugar, and the sight of the sugar bowl upset him. She removed it and placed it firmly behind the milk jug. That was better, he was smiling at her now. He took a sip of coffee, and glanced at his watch. Anna noticed that his hand was shaking slightly. God, maybe he should keep off caffeine, too.

  ‘Well, I must be going – things to do, things to do.’ He slid three pound coins onto the counter. ‘So we’ll see you on Sunday, then – can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to hearing your latest. And don’t forget, be sure to bring copies.’

  He backed away, almost tripping over a pushchair, and waved a hand skittishly. ‘À bientôt!’

  Roxy handed change to a customer, put her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow at Anna. ‘Blimey, he’s got it bad.’

  ‘Think it’s stress, they say it can cause –’

  ‘Duh. He fancies you, anyone could see that. And talk about leadin’ the poor sod on!’ She batted her mascara-caked eyelashes and pouted languorously at the baguettes. ‘I thought he was goin’ to pass out. Still, s’pose the jacket would’ve cushioned the fall.’

  ‘Leading him …? But I wasn’t! I was just wondering if he’d look any better in –’ She swallowed hard.

  ‘Goin’ back to the weddin’. Seein’ as you got no man in your life –’

  For a brief moment, Anna thought of telling Roxy about Jack, then rejected the idea. Roxy was an incurable gossip, and it would be all over Brighton by Sunday.

  Anyway, Jack wasn’t in her life any more.

  ‘Seems to me you could do worse than take Mr Michelin along.’

  ‘Mr…?’

  Roxy raised her eyebrows and jerked her head in the direction of the departing puffa jacket.

  Anna imagined Barry in a hired morning suit a size too small, shaking hands damply with everyone and blushing every time she looked at him. She shook her head.

  ‘No, s’pose not. Still, strikes me you’re goin’ to feel a right lemon on your own. Tell you what, you could always use Ron to do the honours. Do the bugger good to make himself useful for once. Talk about thick – you’ll never guess what he went and let Dean do last night.’

  Anna wasn’t at all sure she wanted to hear.

  ‘Only let him watch a documentary on bleedin’ mummification, didn’t he, so he could get on with his model-makin’ in peace. I come in from Zumba and what do I find? Young Dean with a chopstick stuck halfway up his nose, that’s what.’

  ‘A …?’

  Roxy sniffed darkly. ‘Tryin’ to drag his brain out through his nostrils, wasn’t he, like they done to the Egyptian stiffs.’

  Anna fought a strong desire to laugh.

  ‘I’m telling you, another couple of minutes and he’d of succeeded. I said to Ron, it doesn’t bear thinkin’ about. And it’s not just the mess I’m talkin’ about – it’d be goodbye to bein’ an astronaut, or even a doctor. All because Ron couldn’t figure out which way up the cockpit went on his Messerschmidt.’

  ‘Well, I really appreciate the escort offer, Roxy. Maybe I could think about it?’

  ‘Course you can, love. You’d have to watch him at the reception, mind – he’s a devil for fishpaste bread rolls.’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind … OK, hold the fort, will you, Roxy? I’d better start heating up the parsnip soup, and it’s time those onion tarts came out of the oven. Give Trish a shout if a queue starts, won’t you?’

  While she was stirring the soup, she drew the bill she’d scribbled on earlier from her pocket. Thought for a moment and added another couple of lines, then stuffed it back again quickly as Susie returned with the teabags. She’d leave it till her lunch break; try and make a start on the third quatrain then.

  That evening Anna knelt on the floor in her living room banging away at the ancient portable Olivetti she’d set up on the coffee table. A glass of white wine sat beside it, Handel poured joyously from the CD player. She’d lit a fire as soon as she got home, telling herself that despite the warmth of the early spring sunshine the evening was chilly, knowing in her heart that the flames would make her feel less lonely.

  Still, considering everything, she’d got through the day pretty well. Business had been much as usual at lunchtime, but there’d been a mad rush mid-afternoon on account of the unscheduled arrival of a coachload of French pensioners who were under the impression that Brighton was St Ives and Avant Art was the Tate.

  Despite this regrettable misapprehension, a good time appeared to have been had by all. After they’d done the tour of the upper galleries the whole group had descended on the coffee bar, where they’d crowded round the photography exhibition with excited cries of admiration and much enthusiastic waving of bundles of euros. Alastair had had to be called down from his eerie to explain that non, les photos were not à vendre, absolument not, and oui, to be sure they were vraiment superbes mais, non, Declan O’Halloran was not a Scottish but an Irish name. The flapjacks and scones were pronounced étranges but magnifiques, the peppermint tea délicieux. By the time they’d left in a flurry of goodwill (though still convinced that they’d visited St Ives) and the clearing up was done, it was gone half past six.

  Anna wandered home in a daze of exhaustion, still excited about the poem she’d begun that morning. Every time thoughts of Jack threatened, she stopped and drew the messy wad of scribbled notes (the original crumpled bill had been augmented at lunchtime by several paper napkins) and changed a word, or crossed out a line entirely. By the time she put the key in the front door she had a first draft ready to type up.

  A quick shower, an omelette, and now here she was, rattling out the title. Good. Now for –

  The phone rang.

  Anna jumped so hard she knocked her wine glass over. Jack. She sat motionless, heart thumping, as the ringing went on and on. No way was she going to answer; in fact, she didn’t intend to ever speak to him again.

  The pool of liquid spread slowly over the wooden surface of the table, magnifying the grain of the amber wood.

  Jack.

  No. Not ever again. It was just that … OK, if the spilled wine reached the edge of the fruit bowl before the ringing stopped, she’d answer.

  The ringing continued. The Frascati halted its slow advance, light years away from the fruit bowl.

  Jack.

  Suddenly Anna was on her feet and across to the little table under the window, grabbing the phone with a hand that shook so much she almost dropped the receiver. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Hardy?’

  Disappointment flooded over her, followed by rage. Nobody ever addressed her as Mrs Hardy except companies who were cold-calling; last week three of them had rung her in one evening and she’d missed all the best bits of the film she’d been watching. Who the hell did they think they were?

  ‘Whatever poxy product it is you’re selling I�
�m not interested, thank you.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath at the other end. ‘This is Mrs O’Shaughnessy.’

  Oh, for God’s sake, she didn’t know any Mrs O’Shaughnessy. What she did know was that a) the caller wasn’t Jack, and b) the only thing that would prevent her bursting into tears and throwing things violently about the room because of this was a speedy return to her poem.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong –’

  ‘Tina O’Shaughnessy. From Fergustown, in Ireland.’

  The voice was hard, with an affected upper-class accent; Anna imagined the speaker crooking her little finger in what she took to be an elegant manner as she held the handset several inches away from her mouth in an attempt to avoid germs.

  ‘Look, why don’t you try directory –’

  Tina.

  Ireland.

  Christ.

  Her hand flew to her mouth.

  ‘Hello? God, I’m so sorry.’ No, no, mustn’t say God. ‘I mean hi, you must be Lucy’s mother! How lovely to hear you. How kind of you to ring!’ Lifting the trailing phone cord clear of the table, Anna edged over to the coffee table and grasped the bottle of Frascati she’d left on the floor beside it by the neck. Raising it to her lips, she drank deeply.

  ‘… about the wedding.’

  ‘The wedding! Yes, it’s marvellous news, isn’t it!’

  ‘Simply wonderful. Now, Eamonn, my husband, and I will be in London in a few weeks visiting relatives –’

  So soon?

  ‘– and we’d so love it if you could pop up and join us for dinner, if you’re free? Lucy and dear Sam will be there too, I’m sure.’ Something about Tina’s tone suggested she’d want a bloody good reason if they weren’t. ‘And we can all get to know each other.’

  ‘Gosh, yes!’

  ‘And of course, discuss the wedding plans. I expect Lucy’s told you all about my …’

  Anna lifted the bottle to her lips again.

  ‘… so much to do, I’ve got a list here so long you simply wouldn’t believe. It’s just busy, busy, busy from morning till night. And people can be so unhelpful! I’ve just called the chief bell ringer at St Aloysius – you absolutely wouldn’t credit how rude the fellow was when I said I wanted the team to wear violet satin cassocks to tone with the page boys’ lilac trousers, instead of their usual mauve cloth.’