‘TAKE YOUR POXY JOB AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR JACKSIE!’
‘Excellent!’
‘TAKE YOUR POXY JOB AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR JACKSIE! TAKE YOUR POXY JOB AND SHOVE IT RIGHT UP YOUR JACKSIE!’
I cover my mouth with my hand. Mum’s really getting into it now. She’s even experimenting with her inflection.
‘You go, girl!’ shouts Bunty. ‘Oh, I say, look at this!’
She goes over and starts fiddling with something at the side of the stage.
There’s an odd high-pitched electronic sound and Bunty shouts, ‘Marvellous! A microphone that works! Let’s practise en-un-ciation! Dia-boli-cal! Disa-gree-able! Dia-boli-cal! Disa-gree-able! Now you.’
She passes the microphone to Mum, who takes up the challenge, eager to learn.
‘Dia-boli-cal! Disa-gree-able! DIA-BOLI-CAL! DISA-GREE-ABLE!’ I half-close my ears by clenching the muscles. She’s really going for it now, her inhibitions flying right out of the window.
‘Good, good, excellent,’ says Bunty, reclaiming the microphone. ‘Now let’s have a tongue twister! Nothing like a good tongue twister to exercise the oral capacities!’
Beside me, Carol exhales; a long, shaky breath that she must have been holding in for ages.
‘Mum doesn’t mean it.’ I try to reassure her.
‘Yes, she does.’ She looks as if she’s about to throw up. ‘That’s what she thinks of me?’
‘Not really.’ I try to sound soothing. ‘You heard what she said before, didn’t you?’
‘What?’ Carol peers at me intently.
‘Well,’ I say, scrabbling frantically for something positive to say. ‘I’m pretty sure she said you ‘weren’t that bad’! I mean, that’s good, isn’t it? Plus, she said you used to be – er – ‘much nicer’ … ’ I tail off.
Carol gives me a contemptuous eye flick.
But her chin is wobbling.
And all the time, Bunty’s voice is booming in our ears. ‘I am not the PHEASANT PLUCKER, I’m the PHEASANT PLUCKER’S MATE! I am only PLUCKING PHEASANTS because the PHEASANT PLUCKER’S LATE!’
I glance at Carol, hoping this might cheer her up.
But she’s staring into space, looking utterly stricken.
Oh God, this is an absolute nightmare. We have to get out of here, for Carol’s sake, even if I have to drag her by the hair.
I mean, how absolutely humiliating for her, standing here listening to her character being completely trashed! Hearing the most awful truths about herself and never having realised that’s what people were actually thinking about her.
I can’t imagine what that must be like …
‘You know,’ calls Mum conversationally. ‘Try as I might, I’ve never managed to get to the bottom of why those two fell out.’
‘Won’t Bobbie tell you?’
‘I daren’t ask her.’ Mum sighs. ‘I love my daughter to bits. But I get so exasperated with her. She’s choc-full of hang-ups and fears. I have to tiptoe around her just in case I touch a nerve and open up a Pandora’s Box I can’t close again.’
‘Fears? What’s she frightened of?’ demands Bunty.
‘Oh, well,’ says Mum, crossing her arms and inadvertently talking into the microphone she’s still holding. ‘Fear of confronting Carol and asking for a pay rise. Fear of being penniless. Fear of applying for other jobs.’
My insides have gone icy cold.
‘Fear of actually getting another job.’
I really don’t want to hear this. But my feet seem to be nailed to the floor.
‘Fear of challenging her landlord on the state of that flat.’
Oh, well, she’s got a point there. But that’s only because—
‘Fear of her own creativity,’ she says, dipping closer to the microphone. ‘You know, she used to paint and do glass sculpture. Incredibly well. But now she’s shunted herself into a safe little backwater where she can just blend into the furniture.’
I feel sick. This isn’t me. I’m not a fearful sort of person. Am I?
Mum lowers her voice. ‘Fear of men.’
Okay, enough now.
But no, she’s practising throwing her voice again.
She stands in the centre and addresses the back row. ‘Fear. Of.’ Pause for dramatic effect. ‘Socialising.’
‘Really?’ says Bunty.
Mum nods. ‘She uses any excuse she can think of to turn down an invitation. I think—’ She stalls and looks down at her feet. ‘I think she’s afraid of falling in love.’
‘Good grief!’ barks Bunty. ‘She’d better get a move on if she wants to breed!’
There’s a brief silence. Then softly, so I can barely hear her, Mum says, ‘I honestly doubt she’ll ever find a nice man and settle down. She puts up far too many barriers.’ She pauses. ‘He’d have to be a Chieftain tank.’
‘Plus, of course, she dresses like a bloody nun!’
‘I know, I know. But what can I do? She’s far too young to give up on life and I can’t bear to think of her wasting the years. But she’d be so hurt if I ever said anything.’
Bunty snorts. ‘A short, sharp shock might be just the job. Bring her to her senses.’
‘Well, maybe.’ Mum sighs. ‘But do you see? Everyone says Carol’s an ogre. And I agree, she’s a complete witch at times. But Bobbie doesn’t exactly help herself, does she?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, she just takes the flak and never stands up for herself.’
Mum sounds utterly defeated and tears prick my eyelids.
‘She puts every last ounce of energy into saving money and getting Tim his op. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love her for that. But the sad thing is, I think she does it so she doesn’t have to think about her own life and how – I don’t know – how sad it’s become.’
‘Hmm.’ Bunty frowns and thinks hard. Then she raises the microphone to her lips like a gameshow host. ‘Sounds like that girl of yours could do with a large delivery of spunk from somewhere!’
Mum laughs nervously. ‘Well, yes … er, quite.’
‘Exasperating and excruciating!’ says Bunty. ‘Great words!’
She hands the mic to Mum. ‘Come on!’
‘What? Oh, right. Exasperating and excruciating,’ she mumbles.
‘No, no, no!’ remonstrates Bunty. ‘EXAS-PER-AT-ING and EXC-RUC-IA-TING!’
‘Exas-per-at-ing and exc-ruc-ia-ting! Exas-per-at-ing and exc-ruc-ia-ting! EXAS-PER-AT-ING and EXC-RUC-IA-TING!’
I feel as cold as ice. Big shapes like black snowflakes are floating across my vision.
‘I’m going,’ I mumble to Carol, and before she can stop me, I burst through the curtains and run down the steps at the side of the stage, not even looking at Mum or Bunty.
Escaping outside, I gasp in some enormous drafts of icy cold air. Then, before anyone can think of dashing out and apprehending me, I run for home, dodging astonished passers-by on the High Street, not caring how I must look in my Red Riding Hood costume with tears streaming down my face.
I don’t stop until I’ve reached the sanctuary of my flat and slammed the door shut behind me.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I’m so ashamed of myself.
I’m also freezing. And, of course, the heating has decided to take a gap year.
If I had the energy, I’d whimper.
Instead, I crawl silently under the duvet and lie there shivering, in a state of shock, curled on my side, reliving the horror of the past few hours. My costume feels vaguely scratchy and has an unpleasant synthetic smell, but I can’t summon the strength to take it off.
A tear leaks into the pillow.
I’d got out of bed with such hope and optimism that morning.
Finally, Carol and I had talked. We’d broken the ice. Talked a little about what went wrong. I’d felt there was every chance we could build on that fragile exchange. Move forward to a better place.
After all the hard work I’d put in, the Christmas Fayre was going to be a big succe
ss, Tim would be fine and Charlie’s faith in me would be justified.
A brand new chapter in my life could begin …
Wrong!
Horrible flashbacks tumble round in my head, each one more distressing than the last. Carol’s mince pie thwacking me in the chest. My cream horn dripping down her forehead. Her look of sheer malevolence as she weighs up the sticky toffee pud. People standing there, gawping with disbelief at two grown women hurling childish insults and custard pies. Crashing backwards into the tree and landing spread-eagled amongst the wreckage. (Groan.) Probably showing my knickers. (Bigger groan.) Charlie witnessing the entire, shameful scene and the disappointed way he looked at me before taking charge. (Agonised whimper.)
And of course – the crowning glory – Mum announcing to That Awful Woman in gloriously amplified surround sound that I’m the most pathetic, worthless specimen of humanity it’s ever been her misfortune to know. (Oh, God!)
The downstairs buzzer breaks into my torment. I lie perfectly still, like a small trapped animal. Whoever it is buzzes three times more, with long gaps in between, before eventually giving up. It will be Mum. But I don’t care. I really don’t care.
Then I think; She’ll phone. People will phone. So I haul myself up and unplug all means of communication. I send Mum a text that says simply, ‘I’m fine. Leave me alone.’
My last thought before I sink into exhausted oblivion is: I need to find Mrs Cadwalader. She’ll know what I should do.
When I wake, it’s black outside.
I peer at the clock.
Half past midnight.
I feel sweaty and full of panic, as if an evil force is pinning me down in a vicious stranglehold. Then I realise the scratchy Red Riding Hood dress has twisted itself round me as I slept, much like the menacing leafy tendrils that creep around the castle while the princess slumbers for a hundred years. Oh hang on, no, that’s Sleeping Beauty.
I struggle up, feeling suffocated, and practically have to tear the damn costume off.
As I sink back down and close my eyes determinedly, I’m rather hoping for a hundred years myself.
It might just be long enough to wipe out the humiliation of yesterday.
The instant I wake up, Mum’s voice barges into my head, telling Bunty I’m rubbish.
So I’m forced to relive, for about the ninety-fifth time, the shock of hearing it, as well as the total disbelief that my own mother could think such things about me.
It’s like when she first broke the news to me about periods when I was ten. She was thumping away with the iron while she talked (which, I now realise, meant she could avoid uncomfortable eye contact) and I remember standing by the patio doors in the kitchen watching her, and coming over all fainty and light-headed at the very idea of what she was telling me. Yuck! It couldn’t be true? Could it?
At least the ‘facts of life’ talk wasn’t personal.
But this …
This character assassination couldn’t be more personal and hurtful.
And misguided.
Completely misguided.
Because she can’t really think I’m this pathetic person with a bundle of fears and hang-ups several miles long.
And if she does, why did she never say anything before? To my face? That would be the brave thing to do, instead of wimping out and saying it all behind my back.
Ha! Yes, mother! Apparently it takes a fearful person to know one!
You’re supposed to be able to trust your own mother, aren’t you? She’s meant to be the one above all others who has your best interests at heart. But what mother would say such poisonous things about her only daughter to someone she barely knows and actually finds mildly irritating?
Then a terrible thought strikes me.
Oh my God, does everyone think the same about me?
That I’m a total scaredy cat when it comes to the business of living?
No, no, that can’t be right. Mum’s simply overly anxious about me, the way all mothers are about their kids. She wants the best for me, that’s all. She wants me to ‘fulfill my potential’ as the self-help books term it (which, to my mind, is just a kind way of telling an emotionally damaged person to get off their arse and stop moping about).
I reflect on this for a while and grudgingly conclude that there’s probably a grain of truth in what she said to Bunty. Only a tiny grain, mind you. I’m not saying she’s totally right. But I suppose there’s no point simply wishing your life could be better. You’ve got to be motivated, get out there and take action. (I mean, obviously, I’m never going to be Prime Minister if I stay in all the time.)
But knowing Mum’s heart is in the right place does not mean I’m not still really cross with her for spilling it all to Bunty.
In fact, as the day moves from slumped-on-the-sofa comatose exhaustion (morning), through deciding I that need to escape my life and researching online how to become an aid worker in Bangladesh, while digesting large amounts of cake (afternoon), and finally concluding that actually, I’m way too chicken to do anything of the sort (evening), I’m not just angry at Mum.
I’m incensed.
I can’t believe she could be so unthinkingly disloyal. She was meant to be in my corner. Talking me up. Soothing my wounds. Championing me.
I feel completely and utterly betrayed.
Normally I’m a nice person. Everyone says so. But maybe that’s been my big mistake. Maybe I’ve been far too nice.
Well, listen up, world! All that is about to change, because the worm has turned. My jaw is rigid with determination. Fear? Fear is nothing to me. I spit in fear’s eye!
This worm will not be pushed around by anyone!
Chapter Twenty-Nine
On Monday, when I’m supposed to be at work, I leave a carelessly abrupt message on Shona’s phone at six in the morning so I don’t have to speak to anyone. Then I go back to bed for five hours with my fake flu before getting up and rebelliously eating an entire chocolate orange for breakfast (meant for Tim’s Christmas stocking; that’s how nasty I have become) then feeling sick and flaking out on the sofa.
I hate everyone.
I’m wearing away my teeth grinding them and I’m constantly on the brink of tears.
I hate Mum. I hate Bunty. I hate Carol. I despise Bob the Knob. I’ve even got a grudge against Mrs Cadwalader – her stupid predictions probably made all this happen!
Even when I’m trying to relax in front of Midsomer Murders (being mean can be pretty stressful), my new-found edginess creeps to the surface. The music rises to a crescendo as the masked killer strikes. I hold my breath as a body falls through the night sky from the bell tower of a pretty country church and lands with a thud on the grass. The camera zooms in on the victim’s glassy, lifeless stare.
He looks exactly like Bob the Knob, I think savagely, turning my head ninety degrees to study the likeness. Yes, definitely. Same indeterminate eye colour. Same mousey hair that I used to describe kindly, when we were ‘in love’, as ‘darkish’. Not that I would ever wish Bob a horrible untimely death like that, I think, grinning somewhat ghoulishly. Perish the thought. But a fall from, say, a small stepladder? Now, I could live with that.
And then, of course, I’m off again. Midsomer forgotten, my head is whirling with dark thoughts, dredging up the horrors of my final days in London.
There’s no doubt Bob the Knob had a major part to play in the demise of my London life. If he’d come to my rescue when the financial crisis hit, I might be in a whole different place today. But oh no, he scarpered the instant he realised I wasn’t the high-flying financial whiz he thought I was and actually had less than zero in my bank account.
Bloody men!
I suppose I always suspected he wouldn’t be my rock in a crisis. But I honestly never thought he’d be that shallow. It just shows what a terrible judge of the male sex I actually am.
Mum’s wrong. I’m not frightened of having a relationship. It’s just that when it comes to love, I don’t trust myself to
make the right choices.
Much easier, then, to stay single.
I glance at the phone.
It is sitting there unplugged and possibly bursting at the seams with intriguing messages. I take a bolstering breath. Only a fearful person is afraid of what people think of them. And I am not a fearful person …
The first three messages are from Mum, begging me to call her and saying how terrible she feels and that she loves me very much. My iron jaw is starting to melt when halfway through her fourth message, there’s an odd scuffle and Bunty’s commanding voice booms into my right ear: ‘I say, old fruit, gone to ground, what? Bit of advice! Stop acting like a big girl’s blouse! You’ve got more spunk than that! And by the way, your Ma’s frantic! Wishes she could take it all back! Toodle-oo!’
I frown. Take it all back, indeed! So in other words she meant it. Every last hurtful word.
Next, there’s one of those silent calls that end with a weird electronic woman saying ‘Good. Bye’, which always gets my goat. (I want to yell, ‘You haven’t even said hello!’ but she hangs up before I do.)
Then it’s Shona, telling me they’re all worried about me and asking when I am coming back.
Followed by Shona again, sounding stressed out, saying that with two men down, the work is piling up and could I do the cleaning rotas at home if I’ve got a spare minute?
A spare minute! Bloody cheek! I’m not surprised the place is falling apart without me and Ella there to pick up the slack. Well, hard luck, they’ll just have to manage without us. Maybe Carol will have to do some work for a change instead of swanning off for long euphemistic lunches with Charlie every opportunity she gets!
There’s one more message. I hold my breath.
It’s a man offering me a free boiler – except I don’t even own the bloody flat!
I flump back on the sofa, wishing I hadn’t listened to any of it. Ignorance really can be bliss, I decide, because if you don’t know who’s left you a message, you still have hope. Not that I was expecting a message from anyone in particular, you understand. It’s just Charlie’s usually good about stuff like that; caring and really quite understanding for a bloke. I would have thought he’d have at least tried to find out why I acted so weirdly and out of character at ‘The Festive Farce’, as I’ve christened it.
Humbugs and Heartstrings Page 20