I don’t know if they are going to press charges.
Rock and roll, eh?
Love, Brenda
PS. My career is over so I don’t expect we’ll get to meet now, but I hope you have a wonderful life, and that you have everything you ever dreamed of My feelings for you remain undimmed by time or disappointment.
PPS. Don’t bother sending me a signed photo, as I’m moving house. However, I remain your number one fan.
PPPS. Wild At Heart is still my favourite film, in spite of all the other weirdos in it. I love your nose and ears in that film. Please don’t ever have plastic surgery.
PPPPS. I am changing my name now, definitely.
All my love, forever, Brenda Brown, (that was.)
They let Brenda go at eight o’clock, and she posted her letter, and idled along the Lisburn Road, looking in the windows of the trendy coffee shops there. Some of them were very nice, colour-washed and genteel, but it wasn’t the same as Muldoon’s. The atmosphere was too contrived. She went again to Mulberry Street, and stood looking up at the wreckage of the shop. There were several skips on the street, waiting to be filled with the debris that had been her life.
Penny and Daniel could have been killed, and so could the other residents of the flats. Brenda was so grateful that they hadn’t. Although she’d lost everything, it could have been a lot worse. Penny and Daniel arrived then, in their little car, and Brenda tried to walk away without being seen. But Penny rushed after her and gave her a big hug.
“Everything is fine,” Penny cried. “We’re going to rebuild the cafe, and make it far better than it ever was! We’re going to have a glass roof and a new kitchen.”
“Oh,” said Brenda. She’d thought Penny would strangle her on the pavement.
“And we want you to be our very first customer when we reopen.”
“I’m really very sorry about the fire, Penny.”
“Not at all. It could have been something in our own place that caught fire. In fact, that’s what Daniel first thought! It was all falling apart, anyway. The insurance will pay for some of it.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re taking it so well.”
“Oh, that reminds me, Brenda – our builders are also working on the flats next door, and they found some things in your flat that survived the fire. They showed them to me and I said I would hold onto them for you. Wait there, I’ll get them. They’re in the boot of our car.” She hurried across the road to fetch them.
“I was told there was nothing left, Mr Stanley,” said Brenda to Daniel.
“Well, there is. They found them under the bed, yesterday, apparently.”
Penny came back with a slightly singed shoebox full of red envelopes, and the portrait of Nicolas, miraculously unharmed, except for a few cracks round the edges, where the paint had dried too quickly in the heat. Penny was delighted with herself for being the one to give Brenda back her treasured possessions.
“There,” she said. “Wasn’t it great luck that I was having a chat with the foreman, when they found these. They might have gone in the skip, otherwise!”
Brenda stood on the footpath, waiting for the bubbles of excitement that usually filled her when she was dreaming of Nicolas. But she felt cold and empty inside, like the cave she had once visited on a school-trip to Fermanagh. Outside the dimly lit flat, the whole Nicolas Cage thing seemed a bit sad. His lovely face, the thick bundle of letters that she had written with such passion failed to move her at all. She knew then, the love affair that had never been, was over. She was twenty-five. It was time to grow up.
“Well, Penny, it must seem very ungrateful of me to say this,” she began, “but, I don’t think I want them back. I’ve decided to stop being an artist, and I’m going to be an ordinary person, and get an ordinary job.”
“But, Brenda, this is so good.” Penny held the picture up to get a good look at it. “Aren’t you going to start again, like we are?” Daniel put his arm round Penny and smiled at her lovingly. Brenda didn’t think she had ever seen them embrace before.
“I’m going to start again, I daresay, but it won’t be here. I’m going away. A job has come up, and I’m going to take it. I wish you both the very best, though,” she added, and she shook their hands solemnly. Daniel patted her awkwardly on the arm, and Penny kissed her on the cheek.
“Thank you, Brenda,” said Penny. “Without you, we might never have found out just how happy we were.”
Brenda smiled, and nodded her head.
Slowly, very slowly, she walked away, rubbing her arms as if she was very cold. She didn’t look back once.
“What will I do with these?” Penny called after her, holding the picture and the box aloft.
“Throw them in the nearest skip.”
“Oh, Brenda!”
“Good luck, now.” And she was gone, around the corner, onto the Lisburn Road. On her way back to her mother’s house, to rest.
“There’s no way I’m dumping these,” declared Penny.
“What will we do with them, Penny?”
“I’ll think of something. Give me a minute, Daniel.”
“We have to go shopping, for clothes. We’ve nothing to wear on our holiday.”
“I know!”
She opened the shoe-box, and took out a handful of letters, and posted them.
“Penny! You can’t do that!”
“Why not? There’s stamps on them and all,” said Penny, shovelling in more letters.
“You heard her. She said she’s finished with all this stuff.”
“She doesn’t mean it, Daniel. She’s just disappointed. Wait till Mr Cage gets all these letters in one go. Then, he’ll take notice of poor, wee Brenda.”
“Aye. He’ll have her charged for stalking him.”
“Not at all. He’ll be delighted with the attention.”
“He won’t.”
“Wait and see.” And she put the last bunch in the postbox.
“Are you going to send him the picture, too?”
“No. I’m going to keep that and hang it in the shop. I’ll see if I can’t get Brenda a few commissions. Get her back on her feet again. She’ll be back to see us when we reopen, don’t you worry.”
Chapter 42
A POEM FOR BRENDA
Brenda Brown spent her last night in Belfast at her old home on the Saintfield Road. She wanted to spend time with her mother before she left the city forever. They shared a lovely meal of roast chicken with all the trimmings, followed by vanilla ice cream with wafers, and a bottle of white wine each. Her father and sisters were invited, too, and for a while it was just like old times.
Brenda was so hungover from a week on the gin, she could hardly keep the wine down, but she needed something to numb the pain. She was so shocked by the loss of her paintings, it was hard to function normally, but Mrs Brown did her best to cheer Brenda up. They sat in the kitchen talking, when the others had gone home.
“Now, I said I wouldn’t interfere, but are you sure you won’t stay?” Mrs Brown asked gently.
Brenda thought about it for a while, as she sat warming her toes on the radiator. She could rent another flat, get another job, start making the repayments on her credit-card bills, take the antidepressants like the doctor suggested, and start painting again. One painting a week, for a year, and she would be ready to ring The Blue Donkey Gallery. And she could apologise to Nicolas Cage’s representatives for bothering him, and assure them she would not write to him ever again. But she knew, in her heart, that she didn’t have the energy to do all those things.
“You’re very kind, Mum. But that’s all behind me now.”
“Nonsense. You’re only a youngster.”
“Mum, that was two years’ work that went up in smoke. Two entire years of my life.”
“So? You can’t throw in the towel over a few paintings. Just now, when you were starting to get the recognition.”
“I know that, Mum. But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking this last couple of days.
It’s time to move on. That fire was an omen.”
“You and your auld omens! What if Nicolas Cage writes back to you?”
“Listen, Mum, you’ve got to promise me one thing.”
“Anything, love.”
“Promise me you won’t tell anyone where I’m going. Not the bank, or the landlord, or The Blue Donkey Gallery, or Clare Fitzgerald, or Penny Stanley even, or Nicolas Cage himself. I must have been out of my mind when I sent him that painting. I’m never writing to him again. I’m not a genuine fan, Mum. I’m a crazy-head. That’s what I am. A stalker. Stars laugh at people like me. We’re pathetic. Why would someone like him contact a dole-ite loser like me? I’m damn lucky he didn’t get me lifted.”
“Now, don’t be saying that. Where’s the harm in a few fan letters?”
“You don’t understand, Mum. People that famous don’t write to their fans. For all he knew, I could have been hiding in his dustbin with a bread knife. I’m in pieces about the fire, but in a way, this is my chance to begin again. You know, I might even give up alcohol – I think it makes me reckless.”
“Are you sure about this job, pet? It doesn’t sound like your type of thing at all.”
“Yes. I’m sure. I’ll write to you, and I’ll get in touch with Dad and my sisters when I’m over all this. And I’ll pay back what I owe when I’m on my feet again. But you’re the only one who knows where I’m going, and I want you to promise you’ll not tell anyone where I am. No matter what. Promise me, now.”
“I promise. Now, you should get some sleep. You’re worn out. Go on, I’ve put a hot-water bottle in the bed for you.”
Brenda put on her pyjamas and lay down under the quilt in her old room. She lay awake for a long time. She wrote a poem to pass the time, on blue paper, this time. Her red-letter days were over.
A POEM FOR BRENDA
Goodbye to The Big Smoke.
This IS my last day.
I’ve bought my bus ticket
And I’m on my way.
Goodbye to my flat.
Have you not heard the news?
It burned down last week.
(There were 3 fire crews.)
Goodbye to my dream
To be Ulster’s Van Gogh.
My paintings are ashes.
The big show is off.
Goodbye, my career,
I had so much to give.
Now, I’m tired of giving.
I just want to live.
Goodbye to the bills,
The police and the shrink.
The dreams and the music.
The dole and the drink.
Goodbye to the flags
And the kerbs painted bright,
And the bonfires that burned
Long into the night.
Goodbye to the labels,
I don’t want them on me.
Single, white female.
Non-voter. RC.
Goodbye, the job-market,
With prospects so sour.
And grim little jobs,
Paying £4.00 an hour.
Goodbye, Bradbury Graphics,
You were my favourite shop.
Your glass fountain-pens,
Thirty-five quid a pop.
Goodbye, all my letters.
Every single, red page.
I thought you might love me,
My sweet Nicolas Cage.
Goodbye, house in Hollywood.
Goodbye, turquoise pool.
I thought I’d be famous,
But I was a fool.
Goodbye, Clare Fitzgerald,
You were my only sale.
Goodbye, ’Tricia Caldwell,
You put me in jail.
Goodbye, Penny Stanley,
You were my only friend.
Goodbye to the tea house,
For this is the end.
When Mrs Brown looked in on Brenda, later that evening, she was fast asleep with a smile on her face. She kissed her daughter on the forehead and pulled the covers up to her chin. Maybe Brenda was right, she thought. It certainly seemed to be a very stressful occupation, this whole art carry-on. Maybe it was time for Brenda to grow up and get a proper job.
Brenda slept for eighteen hours, and woke up ready for her journey. The two women hugged each other in the sitting-room, when it was time to part. Brenda wanted to walk all the way to the Europa Bus Station on her own, taking in the sights as she went.
“Don’t worry about me, Mum,” she said, as she set off for the bus station, with a small suitcase under her arm. “I’ll be all right.”
Chapter 43
SALESMAN OF THE YEAR
When the day of the party arrived, Arnold had a lie-in, so that he would look well rested for the occasion. He checked and re-checked his suit for missing buttons, and spent one hour polishing his shoes. There was a rumour going round the company that the chairman was going to give him a gift of some kind, as well as the trophy. He went to the barber’s for a proper shave and a haircut. He spent all afternoon rehearsing his speech. Sadie kept out of his way by going to the cinema to see a double-bill matinee. She sipped cola and munched popcorn in the dark, and steeled herself for the night ahead.
There was a light drizzle as the guests began arriving in taxis. The hotel foyer was brightly lit with thousands of fairy-lights. Glasses of chilled white wine were served. The guests stood around the marble entrance hall and stairs, talking in small groups. Sadie thought she saw boredom on the faces of the other wives, as their husbands discussed light-sensitive glass and electronically-controlled blinds. She went to the Ladies’ Room and checked her lipstick.
When they were all seated in the function room, Mr William Walley, the chairman of the company, said grace, and the meal was served.
“Don’t over-do on the roast potatoes,” Arnold hissed at Sadie. “People are watching. You big, pink elephant! What possessed you to buy a suit that colour?”
“Oh, shut your bloody face,” hissed Sadie. “You’re only in a mood because that dirty little trollop is giving you the runaround!” Arnold’s face turned cerise pink with impotent rage.
“What did you say?” he said, through gritted teeth.
“I know all about it,” she said, cheerfully. “I’m not an idiot, darling. Pass the gravy, would you?”
Arnold’s appetite suddenly died.
At last the plates were cleared away, and the speeches began. Mr Walley spoke gravely, from a small podium, of the dwindling number of Irish homes which still did not have plastic windows. The market for new windows was shrinking fast, he warned.
“I wish you were,” muttered Arnold to Sadie.
“And so we have to change our marketing strategy,” went on the chairman. “We have to promote our extensive range of conservatories instead. A good conservatory adds to the appearance and to the resale value of a home. It is an investment, in other words. The Walley company is leading the way in Ireland, with our state-of-the-art, double-height model and full range of low-energy heating appliances.” There was a smattering of applause. Some of the women yawned.
“And so we come to the presentation of our award for Salesman of the Year. Or should I say, Salesperson of the Year… ha, ha, ha! This is the moment when we recognise the efforts of all our hard-working employees, and one in particular. This year the award goes to a man who has done more than any other to promote replacement windows. Not only has he sold more windows and conservatories than anyone else, he also came up with the idea for our new brochure featuring a Christmas tree. And I’m happy to say that the new brochure is proving very popular with the consumer. Congratulations to you… Mr Arnold Smith!”
There was lots of clapping and cheering as Arnold made his way to the front of the room. Mr Walley gave him the trophy, and shook his hand warmly.
“Thank you, thank you,” he said. “This award means a lot to me. And I would just like to thank –”
“Before you get started,” interrupted Mr Walley, “I want to tell you about our n
ew idea to motivate the staff. This year, and every year from now on, the best salesperson will receive a luxury holiday for two, as well as our prestigious award. Arnold Smith, here are two tickets for a three-week cruise, for you and your good lady wife to enjoy. Raise your glasses, everyone. Here’s to Arnold Smith, and Walley Windows! Merry Christmas, everyone!”
Arnold was too pleased with himself to carry on with his speech, but he didn’t have to. Sadie had left her seat, and was making her way to the front. She took the microphone from Mr Walley’s hand. The guests were intrigued. They sat up and strained their necks to get a good look at the plump little lady.
“I’d just like to say a few words myself, if that’s okay,” said Sadie, as the applause died away. “My name is Mrs Sadie Smith. I used to be very proud of that title, and of my clever husband. But nowadays, unfortunately, Arnold calls me Sadie Sponge, on account of my rather generous waistline.”
A gasp of shock was heard from the women in the audience. The men giggled nervously. They sensed Sadie was going in for the kill.
“Well, it wasn’t Arnold’s idea, exactly. That was the brainwave of his rather nasty mistress, Miss Patricia Caldwell, manageress of Davison’s Gift Emporium, on Lavender Street.”
Arnold rushed across to Sadie and tried to take her away from the podium, but she held on tight and he couldn’t budge her. Thirteen stone of scorned womanhood was impossible to shift. He tried to laugh it off, but the audience were wide-eyed with fear and delight.
“Oh, yes,” Sadie continued. “My husband is a bit of a dark horse, don’t you know? He loves to travel. In fact, he’s just been to Paris, where himself and Patricia had a lovely weekend! He brought me back a sweet little cone of pink bonbons! He’ll love this cruise. Yes, indeed. And so will Patty-Pat!”
There was silence in the room, but all eyes were on Arnold, who had taken a couple of steps backwards. This time Mr Walley himself decided it was time to bring the proceedings to a close. But Sadie was ready for him. She’d heard a few other interesting things as she lurked behind the cupboard in Arnold’s office.
The Tea House on Mulberry Street Page 23