‘I don’t know,’ said Frank. ‘Melody, I have no idea what I am meant to say or do. I want you to be all right.’
‘But what are you going to do?’ she demanded.
‘I don’t know. What am I meant to do?’
‘Are you going to be with me, tell your wife? Huh?’
‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. Are you sure you want to have this?’ He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘baby’. He was desperately hoping that she wouldn’t want it, that she would decide not to have it, that it would be her decision not to. He wondered if it might be possible to persuade her not to go ahead with it, but no. He knew that would be reprehensible. But whatever he did or didn’t do now, he was damned.
‘Well that would be bloody convenient for you, wouldn’t it?’ she snapped back.
‘Melody. I’m sorry. I should never have … Oh God, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do. I’ll help you in any way I can. You know I’m broke, but I’ll help however I can.’
‘So are you going to tell your wife?’
‘You used to call her “Posy”,’ said Frank.
‘I didn’t used to be the other woman.’
‘Look, what can I do? And the kids. I can’t tell them yet, anyway. Izzie’s not even one …’
‘My mum says that everything comes out some time,’ said Melody. Frank bet that she did. Melody’s mum would make sure that Melody got what she was owed. He realised that he was now going to have a whole extra set of relatives to deal with. There was no justice in the world. He would have to leave the country.
‘Look Melody. I’ll do what I can. I want you to be happy. I’ll help where I can. It’s so hard to say how it’ll all pan out yet. We’ll just have to take it a day at a time, won’t we?’ He placed his hand over hers and gave it a pat. The table was wet and sticky from spilt beer. He realised straight away that his gesture would be interpreted as patronising. It was nearly time for the second set. He could see Al and Rich and Ron standing at the bar, draining their pints, laughing at something. He rolled a cigarette. ‘Hope you don’t mind …’ The whole pub was full of smoke, one more wouldn’t make much difference.
‘Nice of you to ask.’
‘Fancy another?’ said Frank. ‘An orange juice or something?’ He remembered with a pang how Posy had developed a passion for tomato juice with too much Worcestershire sauce.
‘I’ll bloody drink what I like,’ said Melody. ‘Why should I listen to you?’ The other Wild Years had now joined them. ‘Don’t expect me to keep singing with you for ever. You’re just a bunch of old losers pretending to be young. You should just grow up. And I don’t need a lift home. My brother’s picking me up. You might as well tell them, Frank.’
‘Tell them what?’ said Al, as Melody left.
‘She’s in a foul mood,’ said Rich.
‘Not like Melody,’ said Ron.
‘Tell them what?’ said Al. Frank saw the landlord giving them a nod. He’d like them to start again. The place was filling up with students.
‘That she’s pregnant. And it’s mine.’
December
The Parousellis were on their way to a Christmas lunch party at Kate’s. Posy had a trifle on her knees. She had always liked it in movies and in episodes of thirtysomething when people drove to parties, the woman (usually a mum) balancing a pudding on her lap. What Posy only now realised was that in real life that character would be desperately trying not to let it slop all over her skirt.
Key Lime Pie. That was what it should be. She had made a raspberry trifle. She was hoping that there would be a bit left, and that she’d be instructed to bring it home. Yesterday’s trifle for breakfast was her favourite food in the whole world.
‘Hope there’s lots of grub,’ said Frank. Posy wondered if she could manoeuvre a cough sweet or a few Smints for him out of her bag. His breath was quite something, last night having been Saturday night. Ah well, soon everybody would be drinking, or at least having a chaste glass of wine or a small beer.
‘Hope it’s not bloody mulled wine. Hope I don’t have to talk to anybody,’ he continued.
They stopped at a pedestrian crossing so that a family of four could zoom across on gleaming silver scooters. The sunshine flashed off the shiny metal. Four golden heads bowed in similar attitudes of concentrated enjoyment.
‘You could get me one of those for Christmas, Frank,’ said Posy. She could see herself whizzing back from dropping the children off somewhere. (Quite how she’d manage with Isobel on a scooter she hadn’t thought.)
‘What those?’ Frank was incredulous. ‘Those sneaky little self-indulgent, pleased with themselves … those symbols of freewheeling consumption?’
‘I just thought that they look fun and zippy, light and free …’ Posy trailed on.
‘Three quarters of the world’s starving, and you want a fold-up scooter! What is wrong with this society?’ He thumped the steering wheel in a futile gesture of road rage against himself. ‘Everything that is wrong with this world is encapsulated by those scooters. Fold it up and put it in your briefcase! Capitalism is fun!’
‘Can things be encapsulated by a scooter?’ she asked, trying to calm him down and throw him off the scent. ‘It could be encapsulated by a small spacecraft, or a hamster exercise ball, but a scooter? Don’t you think that things have to have some roundness if they are going to encapsulate other things? Anyway, I only thought … I only thought that it would be fun to have a go …’ (‘And you wouldn’t see me for dust if I had one of those scooters,’ she felt like adding.)
She supposed that she would just get more large bags for Christmas. Why was it that everyone always gave her big, practical bags? They must all think that she had too much huge, heavy stuff to lug around.
‘Huh,’ said Frank. He was dreading the party. He hated chit-chat, and he supposed that he wouldn’t be able to smoke.
‘Anyway,’ Posy said, ‘you’ve got a bike so what’s the difference?’
‘There’s a bloody big difference and you know it,’ Frank snarled.
‘Don’t swear in front of us, Daddy,’ said James.
Isobel started to cry.
‘Don’t make Isobel cry,’ said Poppy.
‘Or Mummy and us,’ said James.
They pulled up outside Kate’s house. The Parousellis were all set for the party. Posy saw that she hadn’t managed to keep the trifle from spilling. She had noticed quite an interesting wave action inside the pretty glass bowl. The raspberry-soaked sponges were a similar shade to her skirt, which was having its first outing since she’d ordered it from last summer’s Boden sale catalogue. It had been 75 per cent off. It was unfortunate about the cream and custard. Dry clean only, thought Posy, dry clean only.
Kate opened the door with hugs for Posy and the children. Frank managed to dodge his by offering up Izzie for a kiss instead.
‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘Something smells good. I hope it’s mulled wine.’
Posy headed straight for the kitchen so that she could read as many labels as possible and work out which foods James, with his nut allergy, might and might not eat. Again and again she spotted the tiny warning ‘May contain traces of nuts and or seeds’. Why can’t they just put a stroke, she thought. One of the main things that she and Frank had in common nowadays was a shared dislike of sloppy punctuation.
‘There are no actual nuts out in bowls,’ Kate told her, ‘but some of the things you just can’t avoid …’
‘I know,’ said Posy. ‘Mince pies, anything Christmassy. Don’t worry. I’ll choose some stuff for him. It’s lucky he’s so naturally sensible.’ She piled a plate with cubes of cheddar, Pringles, cherry tomatoes, sticks of cucumber, carrot and celery, Wotsits and Hula Hoops. James didn’t like quiche. She put on a few home-made cheese straws and some breadsticks. Those, surely, would be all right.
She went in search of James and found Frank sitting on the stairs holding Isobel.
‘I think it’s a bit noisy for her in there,’ he said. ‘I thi
nk I’ll just keep her out here for a bit.’ And then I might not have to speak to anyone, he could have added. James was watching a video of The Muppets’ Christmas Carol with a gang of children who were all grinning, showing their big, white, middle-class teeth.
‘This looks jolly scary,’ she told the assembled children. They ignored her. ‘Here you are, James. Don’t eat anything unless Daddy or I give it to you. Lots of the stuff isn’t OK. You can have some of the pudding we made later.’
‘OK Mum,’ he said, managing to take the plate from her without looking away from the screen. His expert hand passed over the cheese, carrot, celery, cucumber and tomatoes and brought a handful of Pringles to his mouth in one smooth movement.
Back in the hall she saw that Frank was talking to Jan, her friend from the playground. She left them to it.
‘So then, er, Jean, um, where did you get the boots?’ Frank asked.
‘These?’ Jan said, looking down at her plum suede ankle boots.
‘They give you a real principal boy look. Nice. Very Christmassy. And the leggings, and the what do you call that? A tunic? Very pantomimey. Very festive,’ he went on. ‘I remember lots of girls used to wear leggings and those boots with the turn-overs. Didn’t know you could still get them. Or did you buy a lifetime’s supply in your teens? I know, eighties revival, read an article about it. And the glasses. Really ironic. Nice touch. Posy used to wear leggings like that. I liked them on her. Never wears them now though. You have to be careful with those. If you had skinny legs you could look like Max Wall. You wouldn’t have to worry about that though, would you Jean …’ He looked down into his plastic glass of lager. When he looked up again she had gone.
‘Something I said?’ he asked Isobel who smiled back at him.
In the kitchen Posy was helping Kate pour diluted apple and orange juice into paper cups. There were clever little anti-spill plastic lids with holes for straws.
‘All ready for Christmas then?’ Posy joked.
Kate just grimaced. ‘Well, nearly. Just another few hundred presents to buy. At least I finally posted my abroad ones, they might just get there in time …’
‘I bet they do,’ Posy said. Everything that Kate did always worked. ‘The party’s lovely. I don’t know how you do it, and still look so calm.’
‘Oh but it’s fun!’
‘Fun!’ Posy was incredulous. She hoped that she hadn’t sounded rude. ‘And you make it all look so easy.’
‘In a way it is easy,’ Kate said. ‘Just a matter of getting the right combination of Paracodal and black coffee. Really I’m like a swan. Gliding on the surface, paddling away like crazy underneath. I think that’s enough drinks.’
Posy snapped on the last lid, managing to spill juice on to her already ruined skirt. ‘Oh I’m hopeless,’ she said.
‘No you’re not, just hassled.’
‘I’m exhausted. Call centre workers have better conditions than we do. I feel like a failed member of the synchronised swimming team, desperately smiling, waving and drowning.’
‘Posy, it looks to everyone else as though you’re doing a great job.’
‘I almost can’t wait for Christmas to be over. I’m longing for the empty days of February. I hate the way Christmas is all up to me; I’m responsible for making everyone happy. And we’re broke.’
‘Everyone’s broke,’ Kate said, wiping some splashed juice off the white wall of her breadmaker.
‘But we’re really broke,’ said Posy, realising that she was stepping out of line with her outburst by discussing financial problems. ‘James has an Argos catalogue fixation. Sometimes I wish he hadn’t learnt to read. I don’t know how I let one into the house. He reads it in bed and then brings it to breakfast. His product knowledge is amazing. And everything is only £16.99, only £24.99, only £49.99. He knows we don’t approve of gameboys, but he thinks Father Christmas might bring one anyway. I keep telling him that Father Christmas only brings little things like parachute men and popguns. But it’s all only £29.99, only £34.99. Oh I despair.’
‘Here,’ said Kate. ‘Have some mulled wine.’
‘Thanks. Sorry to moan. I’m all right really.’
Aunty Flora was almost late for the school carol service. She was full of apologies. She had two last-minute-catering-for-a-funeral jobs to do.
‘A green December, you know …’ she explained. She was amazed at how little people thought about planning funerals. Nowadays they never seemed to get beyond buying some Pringles and coleslaw. Really, things could be done so much better.
‘Stop all the clocks and rush out and buy some nasty quiches and dips. That’s all it seems to be for some people,’ she told Posy as she folded her black mac and stowed it under the pew.
Poppy was an angel. James’s class were singing a song, the sort of modern carol that is best forgotten, and soon will be. Posy remembered fondly the year when he had been a donkey. Tom was relatively good, sat relatively still, eating a plate of the cold mince pies that had kindly been provided by the Parents Association. Flora, Posy and Frank were deeply grateful for the polystyrene cups of tea. Isobel slept in the pushchair, her mouth open, hair sticking straight up, looking crazy.
‘Father Jack’s asleep,’ Frank hissed.
‘Oh how can you say that?’ Posy asked. He just would spoil the magic, but when she glanced at him later she saw that his eyes were full of tears. Christmas was, she realised, all about babies. The miracle of babies, the redeeming power of babies. She remembered a poster from way back, ‘A New Baby Is A Sign That God Wants The World To Carry On’. She dabbed away the tears when she saw Poppy take her place beside the manger. She blinked away thoughts of The Massacre of the Innocents.
Behind her a granny, soon to be locked away with Alzheimer’s, said loudly during the prayers, ‘But I don’t like mince pies when they are cold. I don’t like them unless the fat has melted. I can’t eat them if the fat hasn’t melted.’
Christmas Day. Frank managed to ring Melody after lunch whilst Posy, Flora and the children were wishing Lettice a Merry Christmas and giving her a treat of sprouts. He pulled the phone to the end of its tether to position himself where he’d be able to see the back door opening when they came back in. All this sneaking around, he thought, it was like having all the work of an affair with none of the fun.
‘Melody, it’s Frank.’
‘Oh, hello.’
‘I was just ringing up to say, er, you know, and see how you were.’
‘Happy Christmas to you too. I’m fine. Mum made us a great dinner. I haven’t thrown up for two days now.’
Frank could hear the sounds of a good time in the background, and what was probably the dog barking along to some music.
‘Sounds like you’re all having fun,’ said Frank morosely.
‘Yeah. It’s all the cousins. Where’s your lot then?’
‘In the garden, feeding the rabbit some sprouts.’
‘Ha. Oh yeah, Mum wants you to come over some time so we can talk about things.’
‘Oh,’ said Frank. ‘OK.’ That sounded a bit ominous. ‘But maybe we could talk at the New Year Gig.’
‘Mum won’t be there, will she? And I might not. I might go to a party with some of Mark’s friends.’
‘OK,’ said Frank. ‘See you soon. Got to go. Sorry.’ He could see movement around the back door, approaching shadows, he hung up before Melody had a chance to say anything else. Frank had been terrified by the prospect of seeing the New Year in with Melody, even in the pub. Oh the future, the possible questions, the expectations … Perhaps, he had mused, none of this was that big a deal to her. Perhaps, being of the generation that was even younger than Generation X, she would take all of this in her stride, water off a duck’s back. Many of Melody’s friends had progressed from the highchairs in McDonald’s to working behind the tills without batting an eyelid at the artificial lights. Perhaps she was so at home in the world that she would be able to cope with everything with no trouble at all.
&
nbsp; January
It was a relief to have Christmas over. There was a part of Posy that loved it when the decorations had been taken down, and the house looked stark and austere without them. It was a huge relief to Frank: being so tall, he hated Christmas decorations. During the festive period he had a constant feeling that he was about to be poked in the eye or bopped on the head. Taking the decorations down and stowing them back in the loft was one chore he was always keen to get on with. Posy insisted that they stay up until Twelfth Night. He’d have ripped them all down on Boxing Day if she’d let him. Boxing Day had been spent in Pilchard Avenue with his mum, dad and grandpa. The kiddies had a great time. Posy had managed to be stressed out because Grandpa kept trying to give Quality Street to the children, oh the nut peril for James and the choking peril for Izzie! How could a baby be expected to eat Quality Street? And now it was January and the children would be going back to school.
‘And we still haven’t done the thank you letters’ said Posy. ‘Oh how could we have got to January 4th and still not done the thank you letters?’ This year she had meant to get James and Poppy to do them instead of just writing them all herself, but somehow each day of the holidays had slipped by on its toboggan of new toys, trips to the swings and boxes of Marks & Spencer’s biscuits, presents from Flora’s grateful clients offloaded on to them; and still the thank you letters were not done.
‘Well I’ll do them,’ said Frank, ‘if it fills you with despair. Tom can draw pictures and James and Poppy can write on the backs of them.’
‘Would you? Oh would you?’ She was pathetically grateful. ‘I’ll make you a list.’ Posy wrote out the names and addresses of all the people who needed thanking along with what the present had been. This took her as long as writing the actual letters would have done.
‘We’ll do it upstairs. You won’t even have to listen.’
‘Thank you. Oh thank you.’
‘You can write me a thank you letter. Then I’ll take Izzie and we’ll go and post them. It will all be done in less than two hours. Come on kids. Put the TV off. If you do this quickly I’ll get you some sweets at the Post Office.’
Happy Birthday and All That Page 9