Lucky Girl

by Fiona Gibson

  I place the flute on the counter. ‘Are you all right, my dear?’ asks Mr Grieves.

  ‘I’m sorry, I won’t take it.’

  ‘I just thought I’d ask,’ he says.

  Dear Stella

  We miss you lots my riting is getting better midge doing well at sums with yor machine. It is nice to see our dog dad is all right mum says hi

  Jojo xxxxxxxx

  With the letter comes a red card, blotchily printed with black flecks spinning off the letters:

  George Cribley and Diane Mercury Price request the pleasure of STELLA PLUS GUEST at their wedding At 11:00 a.m. on Saturday, October 17

  St Cuthbert’s Church, Dale Road, Brats Hill, Birmingham

  And afterwards at the Vie en Rose Hotel, Davenport Road.

  ‘Want to come with me?’ I ask Charlie. ‘Be my guest?’

  He pulls his leave-me-alone face.

  ‘Please, there’s no one else I can ask.’

  ‘So I’m your last resort,’ he says, then peers through my kitchen window and asks, ‘Who’s your new neighbor?’

  ‘There are two—two and a half, really. Luisa’s pregnant. She lives with her friend Mark.’

  ‘How modern,’ he says, and keeps looking.

  ‘Stop staring, Charlie. You’ll scare the poor girl.’

  He grins, picking up the videotape that’s lying on the work top. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Just some of Dad’s stuff that Maggie sent me.’

  He frowns, reading the white label stuck on its side. ‘Frankie’s Girl,’ he says. ‘Is that the show—’

  ‘Give it back, Charlie.’

  He laughs, waving the tape before my face, then pelts through to the living room. ‘Let’s watch it.’

  ‘No!’ I yell, prompting Surf to scramble out of his basket and bark madly.

  ‘Come on, I’ve never seen it.’

  ‘Give it back.’

  He crouches at the video player, stuffs it into the slot and presses Play. Dad’s face flickers onto the screen. And my face, set rigid, a small but clearly discernable twitch playing around the left side of my mouth.

  My usually abundant hair has been chopped in a sharp line. The face is thinner than I remember, with a long, prominent nose. A less graceful, bigger-nosed version of our mother.

  And I’m not bad. In the realm of hugely self-conscious teenagers being forced to utter coherent sentences before an army of technicians, I put in a competent performance. Maggie was right, Dad really was trying, not just to make that wretched show work, but to somehow connect with me. He wanted us to be friends.

  When it’s over, Charlie can barely speak for laughing. What I think he says is ‘God, Stella, you were bloody atrocious.’

  Summer slides into autumn and I see more of my brother than I have since we were teenagers. Every Sunday we swim off the back beach, and Charlie usually comes back to my place for supper.

  Armed with a plump folder of papers, he installs himself in the last remaining sunny patch on the back lawn. At first I was flattered that he was spending so much time here—since Dad’s accident he seems to need me more—then realized that his desire to Spend Time With Stella coincided with Luisa and Mark moving in (or, specifically, Luisa).

  She’s talking to him over the fence now, her hair shining in the syrupy sunshine. When he comes in for supper, more than an hour later, he is wearing that look. ‘Nice time out there?’ I ask him.

  ‘Yes thanks.’

  ‘Enjoyed chatting to Luisa?’

  ‘She’s a lovely girl.’

  ‘Isn’t she, Charlie?’ I set my fork down.

  He blinks at me, and the grin is smeared all over his handsome face as he says, ‘What?’

  ‘I’m just pleased, that’s all.’

  ‘What’s there to be pleased about?’

  ‘If something happens with Luisa,’ I tease him, ‘at least I’ll know what’s going on with your love life.’

  He doesn’t deny it, or tell me to mind my own business. He doesn’t even shrug me off as I come round and hug him, for no reason at all.

  ‘What shall I do?’ he asks suddenly.

  ‘She’s just had a baby, Charlie. That’s quite a distraction.’

  ‘For how long?’ Outside, the faintest hint of a rainbow smudges the sky.

  ‘About eighteen years,’ I say, laughing.

  31

  Scattering Dad

  Ed has expanded the Orange Tree’s menu and now offers homemade savory tarts with melting pastry and luscious blueberry pie. I make a point of introducing Charlie to Ed as ‘my brother Charlie,’ which comes out so awkwardly I feel like a bad actress stuttering through her script.

  ‘It’s got egg in it,’ a woman protests at the counter.

  ‘I know,’ Ed says, ‘I made it myself this morning.’

  ‘I’m allergic to eggs,’ she continues, and I realize it’s the woman who complained about not being allowed to breast-feed in here, even though no one had tried to stop her, and figure that Ed’s right, she wants attention—his attention.

  And I wonder why this makes me feel strange.

  The woman is balancing on spindly heels. Ed rattles off every egg-free item on the menu. Although I’m not looking—not staring—I’m aware of the curve of his brown arms, the skin that looks as soft as a child’s. I want to say something to Charlie—to confide in him—but then he’ll know, and he’ll look at me as if he knows, and then Ed will know and I won’t be able to come in here for tarte tatin anymore.

  ‘You should ask him out for a drink,’ Charlie whispers, popping a sliver of caramelized apple into his mouth.

  ‘Charlie,’ I snap.

  ‘You know you want to. It’s obvious, Stella.’

  I have Ed’s number. I could call him, anytime. ‘Maybe,’ I murmur, turning my attention back to my plate.

  ‘Why not invite him to that wedding?’

  ‘A wedding? Don’t be crazy—’

  ‘Well, I’m not going,’ he says, folding his arms firmly.

  ‘Charlie, you promised!’

  ‘Ask Ed.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You’re hopeless,’ he retorts, as if he’s teaching me to surf and my feet just won’t do as they’re told.

  Diane marries George on a blustery Saturday morning in a plunging blue dress that is split to her thigh and adorned with tremulous frills. ‘Like it?’ she asks in the windswept churchyard. ‘It’s called Cascade. It’s meant to look like water flowing.’

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ I say, and she does.

  George lingers behind her in a suit that looks borrowed from a larger person. ‘Proposed to her in the Plaza Hotel in Wolverhampton,’ he says. ‘Couldn’t believe it when she said yes.’

  Midge hurls herself into my belly and says, ‘You haven’t written.’

  ‘Midge, I have! I wrote to you last week.’

  ‘Only one page.’ Her eyes settle on Ed, who’s standing a little behind me. She frowns, trying to place the face.

  ‘Hi, Midge, we met at Aquasplash,’ Ed prompts her.

  ‘We thought Stella was bringing—’

  ‘My brother couldn’t make it,’ I cut in.

  ‘Second choice,’ Ed says, shrugging. ‘Better than nothing, I guess.’

  ‘Like my dress?’ Midge asks, tweaking unyielding apricot taffeta.

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ Ed tells her.

  ‘Like a princess,’ I tease.

  ‘Ugh. Can’t wait for this to be over and I can get this bloody thing off.’

  Ed and I follow the throng of outrageous straw hats from the churchyard toward the hotel. ‘What made her marry him now?’ he whispers.

  ‘Because he finally asked her,’ I whisper back.

  ‘I’m glad you asked me. To this wedding, I mean.’

  ‘So am I,’ Midge trills behind us. ‘He’s loads better than that boyfriend with the dumb magazines about fish.’

  The wedding cake is shaped like a pink Cadillac, in homage to Freddie Mercury
’s cake, which was stolen from his fortieth birthday party. Instead of FREDDIE the number plate reads DIANE & GEORGE, black lettering on white.

  Music comes courtesy of tribute band Wicked Queen. I dance with Ed, and George’s brothers, and the girls, who are hot-cheeked and leaping across the slithery floor.

  ‘I feel sick and I want to go home,’ Jojo cries later when the band’s finished and it’s just disco music. When I look over her shoulder, Diane is dancing with Martin, the singer whose Freddie-style teeth cost more than this wedding. She sways her hips, her eyes tightly shut, a delighted doll in his arms.

  It’s gone ten when we say our goodbyes and wander out to my car. ‘We could stay,’ Ed says, climbing into the passenger seat.

  I start the engine, and turn to study his face. ‘There’s the dog, I can’t really—’

  ‘And I’m on an early shift tomorrow,’ he cuts in.

  I touch the bracelet Midge made for me. She was right, I did lose the first one. The second one, made from green Chewy Jewels, nearly ended up down surf’s throat when he spied it on the living-room table. Diane didn’t get around to teaching Surf not to steal food.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ I say, turning out of the car park and waving at Jojo who stands, silhouetted, in the doorway of the Vie en Rose Hotel.

  We’re deep into the night when Ed picks up the Mexican box from the floor of my car. He lifts off its lid, unfolding one recipe at a time. “‘Baked Apples with Raisin Filling,”’ he reads. “‘Deep Fried Fish Balls. Sausage And Bacon Plait.” Why are these in your car, Stella?’

  ‘They’re from Dad. He sent them for years—kept on sending them, even though I hardly cook, really—’

  ‘So why…’

  I glance sideways at Ed, seized by an urge to turn off the motorway at the next junction and see where it takes us. ‘It was Dad’s way of showing he loved me,’ I tell him.

  It’s 1:20 a.m. when I pull up at the far end of the seafront. The area looks smarter now with the Orange Tree’s freshly painted windows and sign, and the therapy center that Luisa and Mark have just opened up. ‘Come in, if you like,’ Ed says, still holding the Mexican box.

  I glance up at the tiny flat above the Orange Tree. ‘I’d love to, Ed, but there’s something else I’d like to do tonight.’

  He looks quizzical as I reach to the back seat for our slices of wedding cake, handed out by Midge in pink net bags with gold ribbons. I suspect she filched fragments of icing—of red bonnet, or black-and-white number plate—because my piece looks ravaged by mice. We wolf our cake, suddenly ravenous. ‘So, can I come, too?’ Ed asks.

  I open the glove compartment, lift out the jumper parcel, and climb out of the car. ‘Let’s go,’ I tell him.

  We walk past the café where Luisa, her baby and I stopped for coffee two days ago. The Orange Tree is favored by young parents; it’s the only child-friendly café around here where you’re not presented with slimy burgers. Luisa leaned toward me over the silvery table and said, ‘I like your brother. I like the way you’re so close, the way he’s always hanging around at your place.’ I had to pretend he’d always done this. ‘Bet you were thick as thieves as children,’ she added.

  I remembered us delving into the freezer for gateaux, and stalking Dad to the allotment, and how things changed and Charlie and I spiraled off. ‘I used to worship him,’ I told her, ‘but then I saw sense.’

  ‘What were your parents like?’ she asked, spooning coffee froth into her mouth.

  ‘Just ordinary,’ I said.

  Ed and I walk onward, my hands filled with jumper parcel, and the Mexican box weighing down the bag that is slung over my shoulder. He doesn’t ask again where we’re going, but just walks with me, his arm resting lightly around my shoulders in the indigo night.

  We’re passing the marina now, and the Anchor, where chip papers fly in the cool, dry air. We pause at the jetty, then tread carefully over the boards as if playing a game—not stepping on gaps. The wind is more forceful now, swirling my hair around my cheeks. ‘Know something, Stella?’ Ed asks as we reach the jetty’s farthest point. ‘That day we first met, at the doctor’s—I’d followed you in. I just wanted to talk to you.’

  The wind catches the pale green dress I chose for Diane’s wedding, flapping the fabric against my bare legs. I smile and say, ‘I’m glad you did.’

  I place my bag on the slippery wooden slats, then peel the jumper away from the flute. Ed touches the crushed keys, the twisted threads that once were delicate springs. ‘What is it?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s a flute. At least, it was a flute.’

  ‘What happened to it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you sometime.’

  ‘That’s awful, Stella—’

  ‘I don’t care anymore,’ I say, and I really don’t. Then I just do it—throw it as hard as I can, like a stick for a dog. It falls in a perfect arc, cutting into the sea with barely a splash. I feel light and free, and a smile as wide as the horizon floods my face.

  From my bag I pull out the Mexican box. ‘Take off the lid, Ed,’ I say.

  He does, and we stand there, waiting. Finally the wind lifts a folded-up onionskin square, then another, until they’re all flying into the inky sky where Mum is, and where Dad wanted to be.

  We watch the pale shapes twisting and flying, like children’s hands waving, until they’re all gone—Mum, Dad, and their tangled past that no longer matters. It’s just us at the end of the jetty now, our salty lips meeting in a kiss that takes my breath away.

  Just Ed, and me.

  Epilogue

  A recipe for blackcurrant cheesecake is carried across barren ground close to where Surf ate the poisoned meat, and catches on hawthorn branches. A young woman gently unhooks it. The writing is smudged—it was written with an old-fashioned fountain pen—but she can still make out the words. It reminds her of Frankie Moon, the TV chef who died nearby. She changed her walking route after that. Being close to the cliff ‘s edge made her nervous.

  The woman remembers eating cheesecake as a child, how it thickly coated her tongue. She slips the recipe into the zip compartment of her bag. She knows where wild blackcurrants grow.

  Mrs Bones didn’t want to leave her flat but the stone stairs were too steep and it became too difficult to go out. She moved to a sheltered bungalow near the match factory, and for most of the summer she can smell sweetpeas from the allotment. She’s on hands and knees on the shared front lawn now, trying to find the beads from her snapped necklace. The beads are little black dice. She needs to find them all—there should be thirty—so they can be rethreaded.

  She’s picking through grass when a scrap of paper flutters to the ground. It’s a recipe for asparagus fondue. Mrs Bones made a fondue for her daughter Christine’s twenty-first; everyone fried pieces of steak in bubbling oil. Christine lives in Coff’s Harbor, Australia. They fell out when she moved. Christine said she’d made her feel guilty for moving, that Australia wasn’t so far away.

  Mrs Bones decides to write her a letter. It upsets her, the thought of losing people forever—like the pupils who promised to keep in touch, or her daughter, Christine. You can’t lose a child, not your own flesh and blood. She stops hunting for dice because, she decides, a necklace doesn’t really matter.

  An onionskin square comes to rest in Bay Street, a beleaguered corner of town where Mr Grieves is packing away the last of his stock, which he hopes to sell privately. Certain instruments, like the flute with the solid silver head joint, he’s decided to keep.

  He is carrying a cello to his car when he spots a small square of damp paper stuck to the windscreen. He peels it off, and sees that it’s a recipe. Lemon Sorbet, it’s headed. Lemon, water, sugar. He remembers the Italian place, Dino’s, that used to be next door. And Stella, who used to have lemon sorbet in there with her mother.

  Mr Grieves slips the recipe into the pocket of his brown jacket. He eases the cello onto the back seat of his car and wanders back into the shop. All that’s left now ar
e the oboes. He opens a case, fits the parts together and puts the reed to his lips.

  He’s not really an oboist. The flute is his first instrument, clarinet a close second. He starts to run up and down scales, and it feels right, fluid, but he doesn’t know if it sounds any good.

  It doesn’t matter because no one’s listening. The notes keep on coming, from some place deep inside him, and all he’s doing is sending them out.

  LUCKY GIRL

  A Red Dress Ink novel

  ISBN: 978-1-4603-1172-1

  © 2006 by Fiona Gibson.

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are the products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real. While the author was inspired in part by actual events, none of the characters in the book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

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