by CP Ward
‘Think about what I said,’ Benjamin said, frowning at the flowerbed as though he had caught it playing pranks in the night. ‘I’m so worried about Grandpa, I really wish you’d go up and check on him. Go on, just take December off. It won’t hurt. The estate will spot you if you need any money.’
Jessica cringed at the thought. ‘I don’t want to let my clients down.’
‘Well, do as you will. But if you decide not to go, could you be a love and stop in every couple of days just to check on the house and make sure Reg doesn’t do anything too dramatic to my garden?’
Jessica held her breath, wondering how long she would need to do it before she passed out. The old Catch 22. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
‘I’d better be going, Dad,’ she said, even as from somewhere inside the house came Emilia’s piercing cry, ‘Or do you think the blue sash would be better?’
4
Ideas
The smell of curry met Jessica as soon as she opened the front door of her building and stepped in out of the cold. She had barely shaken her umbrella off on the mat when the nearest downstairs flat door opened and old Mrs. Giddons, who lived directly underneath Jessica’s flat, stepped out, a rolling pin in her hand to show she meant business.
‘Any chance you could go easy on the spices up there?’ she growled, hitting the rolling pin into her palm, the curlers in her hair shaking with each strike like the bristles on an angry porcupine. ‘You’re causing my windows to steam up. I’ve told you about this before. I won’t stand for it. Every Wednesday I have to put up with this stink, and I’ve barely aired it out before the next week rolls around.’
‘It’s my lodger, Doreen,’ Jessica said, giving Mrs. Giddons her best there’s-nothing-I-can-do expression. ‘She has curry night every Wednesday.’
‘How about kicking her out on the street?’
‘It’s a long-term agreement,’ Jessica said, certain that if she even tried, Doreen would be ‘up for a scrap over it’. ‘I’ll see if I can get her to cook something a little milder next week. A korma, perhaps?’
‘You’ve got Madras Kitchen a stone’s throw down the street,’ Mrs. Giddons snapped. ‘Tell her to take it on the road.’
‘She got barred,’ Jessica said. ‘For fighting. She threw a chair at a skinhead who refused to down a cup of chili sauce.’
‘Just sort it out,’ Mrs. Giddons said. ‘I’m a patient woman, Lemons, but even my supply of patience is running out.’
As she stomped back inside, Jessica winced at her use of her hated school nickname. It was catching. Doreen had adopted it after her father had mentioned it ‘as a joke’ during their one and only meeting. And now her lodger’s propensity to throw it around like a tennis ball at a playground game of bucks was starting to turn her carefully cultivated adult life into the same nightmare she had endured at school.
With a resigned shrug, she headed upstairs. The smell was thicker here, and when she opened her door, the stench of spice was so strong it made her cough. The sound of WWE—Doreen’s second favorite sport after football—came through the open door to the living room, followed by a bellow of ‘Ooh! Tombstone! Dor! Dor? You’ve got to see this!’
Afraid of what she might see, Jessica peered into the kitchen. Doreen, wearing an Arsenal apron, turned around, a wooden spoon in her hand dripping thick red sauce all over the lino.
‘Christ, you scared me. Can’t you knock?’
‘It’s my flat—’
‘And you said you were working tonight. Look, I’ve only made enough for the three of us.’
The vat of curry cooking on the stove was big enough to feed half the street. Six fresh naan stood in a stack, while a pan of cooked rice had overflowed onto the worktop.
‘It’s okay. I’ll get something in a bit.’
Doreen planted her hands on her hips. ‘You said you were working.’
‘They cancelled—’
‘Look, if you really have to, I can spot you a bit. There’s not much rice so you might want to run down the chippy. If you do, grab us a couple of larges.’
‘Um, I—’
‘And we’re low on booze—’
‘No.’
‘What?’
‘I said no.’
Doreen frowned. As her face hardened, Jessica wondered what she had just said. The single word that had defined protests for millennia had slipped out like a mouse escaping from a hungry cat, making a break for it before she even knew it was happening.
‘Are you starting on me?’ Doreen said, putting the spoon down with a snap that splashed curry across the floral paper on the back wall. ‘Because if you are—’
‘All right, Jess,’ came a walrus-like bellow from behind her. Jessica turned to see Mick, almost as wide as he was tall, his head like a softened football squashing neckless down on shoulders as wide and sloping as Glastonbury Tor. Beady eyes squinted at her.
‘Hey, Mick. All right?’
‘Yeah, you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Yeah.’
Doreen was still glaring at her. Jessica grimaced, then rubbed her head. ‘I’m not feeling well today, that’s all. I think I have a cold coming on, and I don’t want to go back out, otherwise I would. I think I’ll get an early night.’ She thought about asking them to turn down the TV, but it was never going to happen. From over Mick’s shoulder came a cry of ‘Bang! Piledriver!’
Doreen smiled. ‘You should have just said. There’s some bread left if you want some toast later. Just give me a shout and I’ll get it out of the bread bin for you.’
‘Thanks, Dor.’
‘You take it easy. You work too much.’
‘Yeah, I do.’
Doreen continued to stare at her, which Jessica took as her cue to make herself scarce. Wishing good night to Mick, she headed into her bedroom and closed the door.
Thankfully, the door had been closed, so the smell of Doreen’s massive pan of vindaloo was subtle at best. She dropped her bag in a corner, kicked off her shoes, and then slumped down on her bed, wondering whether she would pluck up the courage to go back out again, or whether an evening of hunger was preferable to negotiating the minefield that was Doreen all over again.
From the other side of the door came a sudden elongated howl: ‘Hounds …. of Justice!’, which Jessica hoped was a wrestling group and not a form of retribution heading her way for the ignominy of disturbing their curry night. There was no chance she would be able to sleep nor concentrate on a book, so she pulled out her phone and did the usual time-wasting stuff, browsing social media she had no interest in, watching boring videos, looking for a few articles on BBC which she hadn’t either already read or scrolled past. Only when she found herself watching a short video about frozen ice caves in Siberia, did she remember the name of the place to which her grandfather had apparently fled.
Snowflake Lodge.
It sounded like some kind of fairytale palace, perhaps where you could meet Santa Claus at Alton Towers or Thorpe Park during the Christmas season. She had little hope that the reality would live up to its name, but when she put the name into the search box the image results made her gasp.
Set on a forested hillside, surrounded by snowcapped mountains and with a view of the Scottish moors, it looked like something you’d find in Lapland or Switzerland, rather than in the wilds of Scotland.
The homepage was displaying a Christmas season itinerary, which involved numerous Christmas-themed events such as sleigh rides, carol singing, an audience with Father Christmas, as well as cookery and craft classes, cabaret and comedy nights—featuring a “very special guest”, and even an interactive Christmas theatre in which guests could participate. Set against a peaceful countryside backdrop with dozens of nature trails accessible even during the winter, it was a perfect place for a seasonal getaway.
Jessica found herself clicking on the booking button.
Fully booked until February.
She sighed. That was the end of that, then. Perha
ps it might be better to move back into her parents’ place as a de facto caretaker over the Christmas season. Last year, Doreen’s Christmas party had turned into a huge punch up, with the police getting called and two of Doreen’s friends spending Christmas night in the slammer. Jessica had had to replace the living room carpet, buy a new TV, and repair a hole in the wall where someone had impaled an ornamental sword. Doreen had still been chuckling about it months later.
She was about to venture out to the toilet when she happened on a thought. Grandpa hadn’t gone there to stay; he was apparently working there. Perhaps he needed an assistant?
Jessica logged back on to the website and found a JOB OPPORTUNITIES listing at the bottom. There were a couple for kitchen staff, and one for a cabaret singer which she winced at. But there, at the very bottom was something that made her heart flutter with possibilities.
PERSON REQUIRED FOR
PLUMBING AND GENERAL MAINTENANCE
Winter season only
Must be prepared to work unsociable hours
Full room and board included
Salary negotiable
Jessica’s fingers were trembling so much she had to fill out the online application twice before she could manage it without typos. Then, clicking SEND, she sat back, heart thundering. Perhaps she could escape this mayhem after all.
Just as she was thinking of perhaps running out and getting a glass of wine to celebrate, she heard a roar from the other room:
‘Hold it in, Mick! Hold it! No, don’t … don’t … ahhhhhhh!’
She felt the thud as something hit the other side of her bedroom wall, curry or beer or perhaps some combination of both. She closed her eyes, wishing that at least this part of her life could only be a bad dream.
5
Investigations Pending
The next morning, a Trainspotting poster had appeared on the wall behind the living room sofa. Doreen was watching Breakfast TV with a bowl of cornflakes on her lap, sitting on the sofa, which had been pushed tight against the wall and now had a throw blanket over it. Jessica must have glanced in the wrong direction, because without saying anything, Doreen turned to her, put her remaining cornflakes down on the coffee table hard enough to make a splash, looked up, and said: ‘What? I thought it looked a bit dull in here, that’s all.’
Jessica had never been to university, but remembered the house she had shared during vocational college well enough. There had been some fun times, but the décor had never impressed. She’d once asked one of her housemates if he knew who Che Guevara was, having hung his imposingly large portrait over their shared TV. Her housemate had shrugged and told her he’d played bass in Nirvana.
‘It’s fine,’ she said.
‘I’m just concerned that you’re taking this thirty stuff too seriously,’ Doreen said. ‘I mean, who cares if you haven’t got a boyfriend or a decent job? It’s not like your life is going to end when you turn the big three-oh. Obviously you won’t be able to go on any eighteen-thirties holidays without looking like a sugar mama or a pervert, but there’s other stuff you can do, like go on those archeological holidays to like Hadrian’s Wall or something. It’s not all bad.’
‘No,’ Jessica said.
‘So where are you going?’
‘To the kitchen. To get breakfast.’
Doreen cleared her throat. ‘The pipe’s blocked.’
Jessica took a deep breath. ‘Is it? Why?’
‘Phil wasn’t feeling too good. It was Mick’s fault for putting too much garam masala in the vindaloo. Phil has an allergy or something. Terrible.’
‘And how did that result in the pipe being blocked?’
Doreen rolled her eyes as though talking to a little kid. ‘Did you want us to mess up the bathroom as well? Seriously, sometimes you treat me like I’m an immigrant or something. There are laws against discrimination, you know.’
‘I’m going out,’ Jessica said.
‘Where?’
‘I have to work.’ She didn’t, but if she stayed in Doreen’s presence another minute she would scream. Or perhaps start throwing things, or both.
Doreen let out a dramatic sigh. ‘You can wash up later, then. How am I supposed to do it with a blocked sink?’
There was a pub on the corner that opened at ten o’clock for coffee. Jessica was tempted to wait outside, then burst through the doors and demand an entire bottle of their strongest liquor, but she didn’t. Instead, she took a walk around the local park until her anger had dissipated somewhat, then went to Coco Lounge to get a panini for breakfast and read the newspaper.
She began to feel a little better, and started to wonder if her parents’ open offer of a place playing lonely, single, on-the-verge-of-thirty daughter on their cruise wouldn’t be a better idea than putting up with Doreen over the Christmas season. She had considered speaking to a lawyer about evicting her troublesome housemate, but the last time Doreen had pushed her far enough to threaten it, Doreen had broken down in tears and given a long monologue about how Jessica was her best friend and their time together had made up for a terrible childhood, a dozen or so failed relationships, and blah-de-blah, until Jessica had cracked and agreed she could stay. Still traumatised, Jessica wasn’t sure she could handle the same situation again.
The door opened and a young couple came in, bringing with them a gust of cold which rattled Jessica’s ankles. She grimaced, wondering why she hadn’t sat a little further from the door, then looked up just as the young man took off his jacket and sat down.
When life gives you lemons suck on an orange said the slogan on the back of the sweater he wore. Jessica gave a little smile. Her grandfather’s famous catchphrase. It had made him a TV personality during the fifties and sixties, but while his comedy career had graduated to theatre residencies and later cruise ships, careful management of his brand and trademarked catchphrase had made the family rich. Her father, who officially ran Grandpa’s estate, but in reality left it to an agency management team who gave him a yearly update, had no problem living off the family fortune. Her mother, herself the daughter of a famous sixties singer, was a perfect match. That Jessica wasn’t prepared to sit back and live an easy and carefree life off Grandpa’s money had always surprised them.
She turned back to the newspaper, flipping over to the front page. There, in a sidebar she hadn’t noticed before was a speculative piece about her grandfather:
Questions remain about the death of classic comic’s third wife
* * *
Third time lucky? It wasn’t for fifties TV comic Ernest Lemond (92), whose third wife Mavis (nee-Brown) (47) died on September 9th after falling from a ladder while replacing tiles on their shared house after a night of rough winds. Brown, a yoga instructor and personal trainer, apparently fell more than twenty feet and was killed instantly. However, questions remain whether the fall was accidental or perhaps something more suspicious. According to sources, Brown had been keen to wrestle back control of Lemond’s finances from his only son, Benjamin (58), whom she accused of wasting the family fortune. Lemond, too, was believed to have a strained relationship with his wife, whom he accused of feeding him only liquefied pumpkin soup through a straw for days on end. The case continues. The current whereabouts of Lemond, who is wanted for questioning by local police, are currently unknown.
Jessica shook her head. The police clearly weren’t looking too hard. All they had to do was check his Tinder profile or his Instagram, where just yesterday he had posted a picture of a beautiful forested valley which made Jessica dream of getting away. The picture had more than three hundred likes and comments from his fans, none of whom had thought to mention it to the police.
It was tempting to just ignore Dad and let Grandpa get on with whatever was left of his life, but Jessica had to admit, she was half hoping that the job would come through. It was time for Kirsten to step up anyway; she could handle most of the Christmas season business on her own. Consider it her final exam. Make it to January intact and Jessica wou
ld take her on as a partner.
She smiled, realising she was daydreaming, speculating, letting her thoughts throw up random ideas. That was what Doreen did to her: scrambled her mind, left her unsure whether she was coming or going.
Across the room, the young man with the Lemond sweater had suddenly stood up with a scrape of his chair. As his girlfriend gasped with surprise, he dropped to one knee and held up a little box. As the handful of other patrons began to clap, he looked up and said, ‘When life gives you lemons, don’t suck on an orange. Marry me instead.’
The girl seemed to find this romantic. She burst into a flood of tears, then leapt into his arms, hollering ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ far louder than was necessary.
With a wry smile, Jessica left a ten pound note on the table for her breakfast and then headed out.
6
Over the Edge
‘Look, it would just be for a few days,’ Doreen said. ‘And it’s not like you use that sofa much, is it? He wouldn’t be any trouble.’
It was rare that Jessica stepped up to battle her housemate, but sometimes a line was drawn that could not be crossed. ‘Not a chance,’ she said.
Doreen stared at her. ‘It’s December the first,’ she said. ‘The first day of Advent?’ She gave a sarcastic shake of her head. ‘Duh? Weren’t you born a Christian?’
‘I’m not practicing,’ Jessica said.
‘But you have a heart, don’t you? It’s not entirely black and dead. You want to see Mick living on the streets over Christmas, is that it? It’s a month, that’s all. And it’s not like you provide much Christmas cheer, is it? Having Christmas dinner with you I might as well paint the flat black and white and call up the Ghost of Christmas Past. There’s more Christmas cheer in Eastenders.’