Instead, David drew her into his arms and kissed the top of her head. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, and thank you for helping, and thank you for the chips too!”
“You’re very welcome,” she replied, nestling her hand under his shirt, “I had a great time: those chips were marvellous!” Then she pinched his backside, winked at him and walked away. “You never know,” she said looking over her shoulder at him, “I might even come back and help you again! I’m good at stripping…wallpaper.”
David lit up, “Do!” he called, “I’d, er, love the help!” He closed the door behind her and leant back against it and blew out a satisfied puff. The smile on his face was enormous and he sang as he cleared away the rest of the mess.
He felt neither guilt nor remorse. It had been a fantastic evening – just a fantastic evening that had included sex. It hadn’t been sordid or wanton, just pleasurable and fun. It didn’t feel like a betrayal of his marriage vows, more like an extra curricular activity that wouldn’t affect his main studies.
As he turned off the lights and walked down the stairs with a spring in his step and a stain on his trousers, he felt very glad that his daughter’s flat was in such a pitiful state…the more he needed to be there, the better!
CHAPTER 19
Byw fel ci a hwch – living like dog and sow (fighting all the time)
The following afternoon, Esther crashed the gammon slices onto the board, grabbed a knife and stabbed open the shrink-wrapped plastic covering. The meat burst out as the pressure was released and sprayed her in a shower of juices. The cool liquid on her face did nothing to calm her temper.
David had just phoned her from the golf course, asking if she were going to make parsley sauce as it was Louisa’s favourite. Of course she was going to make parsley sauce. She always made parsley sauce with gammon and mashed potato; it was just what she did. Did he not think that the reason she made parsley sauce was because she knew that Louisa loved it so?
Most of the things she did in the house were because that’s what the occupants wanted and, because she cared so much about them, that is what she did. He might have the time to sit and chatter to Louisa and to wrap her in chenille throws – that was how he showed her his love – but she, Esther didn’t have time to make parsley sauce and sit and chat on the sofa to her daughter. Otherwise, Louisa would never have parsley sauce and that would make her sad. Someone had to look after the practical side of nurturing and, it seemed that the job fell to her.
Her husband’s comments made her so angry. Everyone thought David was wonderful. Their friends always looked past her to welcome him into their houses. His work colleagues idolised him as their firm but fair gaffer and, oh, wasn’t he just marvellous with Louisa…
Maybe everyone had just a bad side and maybe only she, Esther, got to see his. She was just sick of being asked to do things that she was about to do anyway. It made it seem that she was incapable of making her own decisions – I mean, parsley sauce? Come on!
She slammed the meat into the oven and then dragged herself up the stairs in frustrated speed to change and put her spattered blouse on to soak. She cursed David again – if he’d not made her so exasperated, she wouldn’t have been so careless with those blasted gammon slices. It was as if she had no opinions, no mind of her own to make decisions with.
Well, she did have a mind, and she did have an opinion – just like the opinion she had about the woman on the desk in the library – was there really such a need to dress like a tart and wear so much make-up? It was a library for goodness sake: there was no need to show so much cleavage just to dole out books and shush at teenagers. Esther felt that she could probably get that across in a card – no need for a formal letter.
By the time she had rinsed her blouse, David was just getting out of the car. She could hear him as he put his golf clubs into the garage – they always got put into the right place. They never got dumped in a corner, far too bloody precious.
She reached the kitchen in a bad mood: bloody gammon, bloody golf clubs and bloody David. She could hear him as he sauntered in and threw his keys onto the table (instead of putting them on the hook where he would expect to find them when he next needed to go out). She could hear him hum as he took his coat off and slung it over the newel post when he knew it should be hung on the coat rack. Then she heard his shoes getting removed one by one, with the laces still done up, and then hoofed against the skirting board. It was like living with a bloody teenager, she fumed, as she disappeared into the utility room to calm down.
On her return, David was sitting down at the kitchen table looking around in surprise. Esther made a pot of tea and then poured him one. She passed him a cup. “Thanks,” he said. “I was wondering where that was!”
“I’ve only just made it!” Esther began, trying hard not to shriek. “You’ve only been back two minutes. Do you want me to make a cup every minute from the moment you leave the golf club so that it’s always available?”
“Esther, love, calm down! I was only joking!” David shook out his paper with a little chuckle and a shake of his head. Esther felt like crowning him. He had a knack of making her jump to his will and then belittling any small rebellion with that patronising, “Esther, love!” and then his chuckle. She just found herself getting more and more worked up as he seemed to settle down and get more relaxed. However, she decided against crowning him or storming out and instead returned to her pastry making.
David took a loud slug of tea, “Ooh, lovely cup, Esther, love, thanks.”
She didn’t know whether to scream, “Well of course it bloody is! It’s tea and I make several cups of it for you each day: it’s not that difficult to get it right, is it?” Instead, she counted to three and said, as light-heartedly as she could muster, “You’re welcome.”
“Nasty business this.” He said.
“What?” she replied, putting down her pastry knife. That irritated her too – him, saying something that she was supposed to answer, when she had no idea what he was talking about. What the bloody hell are you on about now? Do you expect me to sit next to you, reading the same thing in case you wish to discuss it? One, two, three… “What’s that, love?”
“This – this letter writing thing going on in town.”
Esther put her knife down. Then picked it up again. “Yes, I’ve read a bit before about that. Been more has there?” She was surprised that he couldn’t hear her heart pounding, sending flour dust in puffs from her pinny.
“The women in work were saying that there’s been two dozen or more.”
“Two dozen!” she exclaimed, then checked herself. “As many as that?”
“Well, the Inspector, here, in the paper…” David took an infuriatingly long sip of tea, “says they’ve had three reported, you know, as complaints…offences.”
“I thought people had been pleased to have received them – you know, when they’d had time to think about what had been said. Like in the Tasty Bite café?”
“The Tasty Bite café? What was that then?”
“Oh, can’t remember really – just that the owner had said that what had been said was actually accurate and putting it right had turned her business around. Something like that anyway…”
David shrugged, “Don’t remember reading that. But, here: The Inspector says that the letters are petty and malicious, referring to people’s hygiene and one woman’s weight problem. Tsch, some people, eh? Nothing better to do…” David turned the page.
“Weight problem?” started Esther, “What do they mean, one woman’s weight problem?”
“Dunno,” he replied vaguely, clearly no longer interested, “Hey, looks like our old estate might finally be getting their play area! Typical, eh? Only fifteen years too late for our Louisa to play out in!”
“But, but – weight problem?” Esther was now thinking aloud and knew that it had to stop. She’d never mentioned anyone’s weight problem. Could have done of course, Natalie Phillips could do with a reminder for starter
s, but she hadn’t, yet. The Inspector must have been generalising or maybe just got it wrong. Unless…unless – unless someone else was doing it too?
Esther’s apple pie was thrown into the oven, the pastry leaves that were usually carefully feathered, were instead two sausages splattered with beaten egg and porcupined with hairs from the pastry brush. Surely no one else would do such a thing? She checked the temperature and set the timer.
She, Esther, was writing those letters in a constructive, positive manner, aiming to help and to turn businesses around. It sounded like this other person – or God forbid, persons – who had jumped on the bandwagon, was being underhand and spiteful. What had the Inspector said? Malicious?
Perhaps the Inspector needed a little one, from her, to explain that she – anonymously of course – was the original letter writer and was a positive, constructive person, not a spiteful malicious one – just so as he understood.
As she walked to the sink to wash the flour from her hands, she peeped over David’s shoulder at the picture of the Inspector on the inside page. Perhaps whilst she was at it, she could mention to him that a more modern haircut wouldn’t go amiss; such thick grey hair didn’t wear a fringe well…
CHAPTER 20
Mynd ar drot cadno – going at a fox trot (without a care in the world)
Johnny Brechdan hated Chinese food – nasty slimy noodley things, he would moan, but he was leant against the counter in the local takeaway on a Thursday evening giving it his all.
He’d chosen his timing carefully: nine-thirty in the evening. Too late for sober ordering of an evening meal and too early for drunken chicken ball cramming. It had been a good call as he’d been the only customer in there for the whole ten minutes.
“So,” he said finally, “you recommend – remembering that I don’t like chicken, but I do like noodles – beef chow mein and a portion of Chinese vegetables to start with, yes?”
The girl laughed, flicking her hair over her shoulders, “Yes! I can’t believe I’ve ever met anyone who’s taken so long to choose!”
“Ah, well there is no one else like me, you see!” he smiled, making sure that his eyes twinkled in his special little way.
“That’s not what I said, but, yes, I suppose you are quite unique,” she laughed. “Now, is that what you want to order?”
“Yep.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
“You’re really, really sure?”
“Yes. But – actually, can I ask for just one more thing?” The girl feigned exasperation, but gave the game away as she blushed. “Could I have your phone number, please?”
“Would you like fries with that, sir?” she retorted, as she flounced into the kitchen with the order ticket.
Johnny pulled up triumphantly in the car park of the Bull and splashed his truck through a puddle, showering dirty water over the window of the snug. He was pleased to see Joe’s Cherokee parked as near to the entrance as was possible; good, that meant that the others were already in.
He marched into the pub and saw them all sat round a table in the corner, trying to sit out of the draught, as near to the fire as possible without being in sensory range of Bad Breath Ken. He dumped a white carrier bag in the middle of the table.
“Present for you,” he said, as seriously as he could muster. Joe looked confused and peered into the bag and started unloading it.
“What on earth is this for? A lukewarm Chinese takeaway for a night in the pub – you been robbin’ again? Number forty-seven, what’s that?”
“Beef chow mein probably.”
“Prawn crackers?”
“Bloody horrible things,” dismissed Johnny. “What else?”
“Well, you ordered it – or maybe that bloke you knocked over the head ordered it?” said Joe, putting his hand back into the bag, much to Sima’s disgust.
“Number 815372? How big is their menu?” asked Iestyn, reaching over and stuffing a few prawn crackers into his mouth.
“Ah, that one’s mine,” smiled Johnny and took the lid off a foil dish with a load of Chinese vegetables staring up at him. “There, Joe, eat that, Fat Boy: I just need this.” He took the lid, wiped the grease off the underside with a serviette from inside the bag and popped it into his pocket with a wink at Iestyn and a smile.
“Oh, I get it now: you’re after Sue – Noodle Soodle who works at the Chinese?”
“Not after mate, in conversation with …”
“Conversation, my arse,” said landlord Ed coming over. “Brechdan, get that stinking slop out of my pub. No picnics in here please. We do serve a fine selection of crisps, scampi fries and peanuts: really no need to bring in your own.”
“It’s OK, Ed, I’ve got all I need now – you can chuck the rest in your bin.”
“Oh. Going free is it?”
“Yep, all yours, mate.”
“In which case, I’ll take it off your hands – I can treat myself to a decent breakfast tomorrow now. Nothing beats cold chow mein for brekkie of a morning.”
Sima looked on in amazement as Ed packed up the goodies and headed off back to the bar. “So, this Noodle Soodle,” asked Sima, “is she related to Bacon Sandwich Lil?” The others laughed.
Johnny squirmed and held his hands up, “OK, OK, so Bacon Sandwich Lil was not my finest hour…”
“Finest hour?” crowed Iestyn, “Finest five minutes – and all to escape having to queue for a bacon sandwich: shame on you, Brechdan, shame on you!”
“Anyway,” said Sima, not finished with him yet, “back to Noodle Soodle – nice girl is she?”
“Gorgeous.”
“Been after her long have you?”
“Yep. Saw her yesterday unloading frozen chicken from a van. Been thinking about her all night.”
CHAPTER 21
Cnoi cil – to chew the cud
Sima met Menna in a wholefood café in town. Menna was nervous about her choice of venue. “It was the only place I could think of that didn’t automatically have a pile of white sliced next to the salt and vinegar…”
“No, this is wonderful,” said Sima, “although anything would seem like nouvelle cuisine after the plate of swede and gravy that I watched Iestyn devour while he was waiting for the chicken to be carved last night…”
“That explains quite a lot about Iestyn,” laughed Menna.
“Yes, I’ll have to give it to the boy, he’s not a picky eater! But, he is wonderful; he hitched a lift to the metalled road with me this morning on the pretence of checking something, but I am sure that it was only because he wanted to spare me from having to drag those gates open through the mud!”
“Probably feels guilty that they’re in such a state – he’s been promising Isla that he’ll mend that end one since last winter, and it was pretty knackered then!” Menna was enjoying talking about Iestyn, glad that Sima seemed to like him. In fact, she’d much rather chat with Sima about anything, than what was actually on the agenda: her. Menna Edwards.
She had her jeans on again and a navy sweatshirt. Mother had been worried about the weather forecast, so as Menna had been going into town anyway she’d had not wanted to miss an opportunity for stockpiling supplies and getting a few jobs done. Therefore, en route to her life coaching appointment, Menna had collected some tablets from the vets, some dog meal and gate latches from the farmers’ merchant’s, a pile of meat for the freezer from the butcher as well as returning the library books, paying bills, querying bills and racking up a few more in various outlets around town. She’d been out since half past nine, and hadn’t given much thought to her lunching attire. Luckily Sima, who was wearing elegant jeans, heeled boots and an unproofed leather jacket, didn’t seem to have noticed.
They ordered their lunches and then Sima reached into her bag for a notebook. “I just brought this one, as I didn’t want Joe to suspect that I was ‘working’,” she explained, as if by way of an apology that she didn’t have a leather-bound A4 Smythson and a gold-plated pen. Then Sima took
out a gold pen from her bag: ah, she did have one of those after all…
“Right then,” she said and Menna leaned forward to drink in her words. “I’ve started by just cutting a few suggestions out of magazines for outfits that I think would probably suit you… I know that some of these cost a fortune, but it’s more the style I’m thinking of. The look, not the actual pieces, OK?” Menna craned in further, expecting to see Zandra Rhodes in a sequined mermaid’s outfit. Instead, she was pleasantly surprised to see relatively simple outfits that were just funked up enough to make them interesting. Sima pointed out how Menna’s shape was similar to one particular celebrity and, well that length top would work, especially with that style of trousers – and she could wear those type of boots with either a dress or trousers.
It was the first time that anyone had ever spent such exclusive time with Menna, giving her advice in a non-patronising way. Menna soon felt at ease and as their meals arrived, she was feeling confident enough to point out that she liked that one, but wasn’t so keen on this one. “I wondered about that one too,” said Sima, “Yes, I think you’re right.” Sima treated her like an adult who was of course bound to have opinions on what she might like to wear.
Menna was less aware that Sima was slipping in more pertinent questions about her life and what she thought about this or that as they flicked through the glossies. If there was an uncomfortable silence, she would point again at a necklace, saying it would look a completely different outfit if she wore something like that, or maybe a less chunky version.
“What these kind of blockages usually go back to,” said Sima, “is maybe just one comment or action that someone said or did that made you lose your confidence in your abilities to decide for yourself and be happy with that decision. We all make bad style choices occasionally – yes, even me,” she smiled as she saw Menna’s raised eyebrows, “in fact, especially me – but the difference is that they are just a bad day, not a change in outlook. It goes back to thinking about some defining point in your life and acknowledging it, and then moving forward. Easier said than done, I know, but maybe just make a start by thinking about it? Now, where is the Ladies’?”
Cold Enough to Freeze Cows Page 17