Humbugs and Heartstrings

by Catherine Ferguson

  I put the box on the floor, charge over to the stationary cupboard and pull open the door. Then I start removing boxes of pens and banging them on my desk, lining them up like a troop of soldiers. When I’ve assembled about a dozen boxes, I plonk my open bag on the desk, which is wobbling perilously under all this unaccustomed activity, and start tipping the contents of each box of biros from a height into my bag. Blue, black, red – in they all go, making a jolly rattling sound with each new load.

  When I’m finished, I beam at everyone in turn. ‘Well, that should keep me going for a while.’

  I pick up my bulging bag and start heading for the door.

  Then I change my mind, turn round and aim a kick at the desk. My stupid, flat-pack, ridiculously inadequate desk. It wobbles promisingly but remains standing. So to the astonishment of everyone, including me, I turn it on its side and sit down on top of it, wobbling about a bit to exert pressure.

  Shona snorts and tries to cover it up with a cough.

  Realising I could look very silly indeed if I don’t actually to do some damage, I set to, using all my strength trying to prise the desk top away from the legs. Luckily for me, it isn’t all that difficult.

  Then I collect up the bits of wood, take them through to Carol’s office and dump them in the middle of her desk.

  ‘You might need to buy a new one,’ I call on my way out.

  Chapter Forty-One

  When I wake up, I’m already scratching at the inside of my elbow.

  I pull down my sleeve and reach for my dressing gown, trying to work out what it is that I have to do.

  In the kitchen, I notice the mess; dirty mugs in the sink, crumbs and slopped milk by the kettle, bowls with the remains of cereal welded to the sides.

  The empty cereal packet stands open in the middle of the work bench.

  Something is nudging at my tired brain. Something I need to do.

  Tea.

  I’ll drink some tea. Perhaps that will help to clear away the fog from inside my head.

  What day is it?

  I stand there, waiting for the kettle to boil, trying to remember how long it is since I walked out of the office for the last time. Three days? Five? Seven?

  I look in the fridge. No milk.

  Of course. I ran out yesterday. Or the day before yesterday. I can’t really remember. I do recall eating the last of the cereal at midnight, transferring handfuls from the packet straight into my mouth.

  Abandoning the tea, I wander through to the living room and switch on breakfast TV. And that’s when I realise.

  Today is December 18th.

  In three days it will be Tim’s birthday.

  I’ll have to go out shopping.

  The eczema inside my elbow gives an extra fierce twinge and I squeeze my arm, determined not to scratch.

  It’s weird.

  My life has gone into complete meltdown. I’ve no job, no money and no possibility of ever being able to get Tim his operation. My days in this flat are numbered and the chasm between Carol and me can never be breached, since I walked out and left her in the lurch.

  And to cap it all, I’ve lost Charlie forever.

  Everything is crashing down around me and yet it’s this little patch of eczema that’s been driving me mad for days. It dominates my waking hours. I try to leave it alone, then I get diverted by some programme on TV and automatically, my fingers stray over to it and start scratching again.

  It’s almost as if my body is providing me with a distraction – something to take my mind off the real problems that might otherwise drive me over the edge.

  My reflection in the mirror over the fireplace is quite a shock: pasty complexion, raw eyes and hair like a neglected hedge. The thought of braving the freezing cold High Street and having to interact with people makes me want to go straight back to bed, pull the duvet over my head and sleep for another week.

  But I can’t.

  I’ve got to get Tim a card and a present.

  I get in the shower and as I wash my hair, I can’t help remembering that the last time I did this was the morning I resigned.

  When I left the office, head held determinedly high, my entire body was fizzing with adrenaline. I couldn’t believe I’d done it at last – told Carol exactly what I thought, instead of keeping it all bottled up inside.

  I managed to make it down the stairs and out into the street. Then I remembered my coat. I leaned back against the wall, shivering and clutching my cardboard box, as a great wave of nausea rolled over me.

  I couldn’t return for my coat.

  I’d resigned and there was no going back.

  That day seems a lifetime ago now.

  When I’m ready to brave the shops, I have to first of all wade through a pile of mail by the door. And that’s when it occurs to me that people have probably been trying to reach me. But I abandoned the phone days ago and I’m in no hurry to renew our acquaintance.

  Mum knows the score. I said I needed time to think and bless her, she’s giving me that.

  It’s a raw day of grey skies and a penetrating wind. I dig my hands deep in my pockets and scurry along, avoiding the eyes of passers-by.

  I know what I want. Tim needs a new watch. I’ll walk along to Harringtons, the department store at the other end of the High Street, buy the watch and the card, then head straight home.

  Stopping at the cash point, I slide in my bank card, knowing there won’t be much but enough to sort Tim out. But the machine spits out my card and when I check my balance, I find out why.

  I have fourteen pence in my account.

  I feel a thud of dread.

  When I hunt in my purse, I have enough to buy the card. The watch will have to wait.

  In Harringtons, I head straight up the escalator to the cards. Spending time choosing the right one for Tim – the fart joke or the gimmicky audio card? – makes me relax and forget about things for a while. I’ll bake Tim a cake, I decide, with thirteen candles, and show him Mum’s not the only Nigella in the family.

  I’m smiling as I head back down the escalator.

  Gazing at the people milling about, I’m not really looking at anything in particular.

  Then I spot him.

  Standing at a counter between the handbags and the perfumes, a tall man in a navy overcoat is talking to an assistant.

  The breath catches in my throat.

  He turns his head slightly and my heart starts to beat very fast.

  Charlie.

  A million thoughts rush through my head as the escalator carries me closer and closer. Has he forgiven me? Will he listen if I try again to explain? Or will he stare at me with the same cold disappointment he did the night of Fez’s party?

  I want to talk to him so much.

  But I can’t.

  I stumble off the escalator and start moving towards the exit. Then someone behind me gives a hoot of laughter – and Charlie turns round.

  Our eyes meet and in that first few seconds, I see his eyes light up.

  I hesitate, my heart pounding. Then I force my legs to carry me over to where he is.

  As I approach, his face closes up and he rubs his forehead. The assistant says something to him with a smile and holds out a bag. As he turns to take his purchase, I can see the harsh set of his jaw.

  I stop in my tracks, watching him chat to the assistant, my throat suddenly thick with emotion. Then I put my head down and hurry towards the exit.

  He shouts my name. Just once. But I’m gone, half-running, half-walking, blindly bumping into people, just wanting to get away.

  He hasn’t forgiven me.

  I bolt upstairs to the safety of the flat, haunted by the bleakness in Charlie’s eyes when he turned away from me. Probably the last thing he wanted was me showing up, a reminder of the bad old days. Because however I dress it up, telling myself it was divided loyalties that kept me from telling him the truth immediately, the fact is I deceived him.

  Just like Miranda did.

  I
’m edgy the rest of the day, jumping every time I hear a car door slam or the revving of an engine in the street below.

  Much later, I realise I’ve been half-hoping the whole day that Charlie might come after me.

  Laughing at my own stupidity, I switch off the TV, turn out the lights and go to bed.

  Next morning, I’m tackling the mess in the kitchen, when the doorbell rings.

  Who … ?

  I go through to the bedroom, fling off my comfy old pyjamas and pull on a silky robe that I never usually wear. Running my hands through my hair, I take a deep breath and go to the door.

  It’s the postman.

  I take the small parcel he’s holding out and retreat inside, my heart drumming steadily.

  Who would be sending me a package?

  I stand there in the hall and with shaky hands, try to get my nail under the sticky tape. But it’s wrapped up so well that in the end, I have to run to the kitchen and attack it with scissors.

  At last the paper is off and I pull out—

  Ronald McDonald.

  He’s sitting in his little blue speedboat, a wide smile on his clowny red chops.

  I almost laugh, I feel so stupid.

  Oh, the irony!

  Slumping on the sofa, I stare at Ronald for a long time, through blurred vision.

  It seemed funny when I bought it. But that was when I thought I might see Charlie again and be able to give it to him.

  Now, that possibility seems more remote than ever.

  When I wake next morning, the thought is already in my mind.

  I have to move out.

  I’ve been trying not to think about it, burying my head in the sand, but it’s time to face facts. With no job and no money, I can no longer pay my rent.

  With a heavy heart, I phone Mum.

  When she picks up and hears my voice, her relief streams over the phone line to me. ‘Of course you can move back in! We’d love it.’ She calls through to Tim. ‘Bobbie’s moving back in! Isn’t that great?’

  ‘Are you sure, Mum?’ I’m anxious she’s only pretending to be pleased. ‘We were a bit squashed the last time, remember?’

  She laughs. ‘Rubbish! Get yourself over here and we’ll chat about it.’

  I hang up, feeling better.

  Maybe, after all, things are going to be fine.

  On my way over to Mum’s, I hesitate at the cash machine. I don’t want to wreck my mood if the money still isn’t in. But in the end, I decide I need to know one way or another.

  It’s payday, but my balance remains at fourteen pence.

  I stare at the green lettering, my heart spiralling down into my shoes.

  Carol has obviously decided, out of spite, that I can whistle for what I’m owed. So that means I won’t be able to buy Tim the watch.

  Worse, I won’t be able to pay the rent, which is due in three days’ time.

  My stomach is churning.

  I should never have resigned. All I’ve succeeded in doing is shooting myself in the foot. I can’t go to Mum’s in this state. She’d only be frantic.

  I push my hand up my sleeve and scratch angrily at my elbow, not caring if I make it bleed. Then I lean against the wall, blinking away tears, as the wind continues to buffet me.

  What the Hell am I going to do?

  Through my blurred vision, I suddenly catch a flash of colour.

  A cyclist is battling, head down, into the wind on the other side of the road. It looks like a woman. She’s wearing a bright orange tracksuit and is making good progress despite the conditions.

  Hang on …

  Mrs Cadwalader?

  Instantly, every nerve in my body leaps to attention.

  Mrs Cadwalader knows things. She’ll be able to help.

  She’ll have the answer I need!

  I start to run.

  I don’t even knowing what I’m going to say to her. I just know I have to stop her and talk to her.

  The road is busy with Friday lunchtime traffic. But I’m managing to dodge pedestrians while at the same time keeping an eye on Mrs C in the distance.

  She’s pedalling steadily, but walking every day is paying off because I’m slowly catching up with her. Now all I need to do is gain on her slightly, get over the road and hopefully flag her down.

  But suddenly, to my dismay, she sticks out her left hand and starts turning into a side street.

  Shit! I’m going to lose her!

  I take a swift left-and-right glance. The other side of the road is clear.

  There’s a lorry rumbling along on my side. But I can make it across.

  I dive into the road—

  And an almighty blast of protest splits the air as the driver thumps the horn.

  I turn and the huge artic monster is towering over me.

  Hurling myself backwards, I go crashing down onto the pavement as the lorry driver, still honking furiously, steams on by.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  When I wake next morning, I feel like I’ve been in a punch-up.

  I’m stiff as a board, my arm hurts and I have bruising all down the left side of my body.

  But my head feels clearer than it has in weeks.

  I take an awkward shower, ease into a white blouse, fitted grey pinafore and heels, then eat the first proper breakfast I’ve had in days.

  My box of Christmas baubles is ready on the hall table.

  I put on my coat. Then I remove the lid from the box and take one shiny red globe out of its tissue paper and hold it up, dangling it by its gold cord. It twirls from side to side, the lovely rose glass catching the light from the living room window.

  I carefully rewrap the bauble, place it back in the box then pop the leaflet Fez gave me, advertising the new gallery, into my bag.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m on a bus heading for a town twenty miles away, clutching the box of baubles on my lap.

  I watch the fields and houses whiz by, thinking about my near-miss with the lorry; and the kind older woman who helped me up, insisted on walking me back to the flat and stayed while I drank some very sweet tea for the shock.

  Much later, when the nausea had passed, Mum sent a taxi for me and I let her fuss over my badly grazed arm. Horrified by what had happened, she wanted me to rest, not start sorting through boxes of baubles in the garage.

  But I didn’t care about the pain.

  I knew what I had to do.

  I’d been wrong thinking Mrs Cadwalader could solve anything.

  There was only one person who could kick-start my life.

  And that was me.

  I’m pleasantly surprised by The Walker Gallery. It’s housed in an old ribbon factory, which has been elegantly renovated with light, open spaces on two floors, connected by a spiral staircase made of pale wood and chrome.

  I explore both levels, taking in the eclectic mix of modern art and sculptures on the ground floor, and lingering over the pottery, glassware, jewellery, fabrics and hand-crafted cards on the floor above.

  There’s a small coffee bar on the upper floor and I hesitate at the door.

  Then I decide the time for stalling is over.

  It’s now or never …

  I walk slowly down the spiral staircase to reception and, taking a big calming breath, ask the girl behind the desk if they’re still looking for new exhibitors.

  She smiles and nods. Her ear-rings, beautiful irregular chunks of polished turquoise stone, swing from side to side. ‘What have you got for us today?’

  I put the box on the counter with a shy smile.

  ‘I’m Roberta Blatchett. I do glass-blowing. These are Christmas tree decorations.’

  I unwrap one red bauble and one green and hold them up so that they catch the light.

  She stares at them and blinks rapidly. ‘Gosh. Right. Um – do you mind taking a seat over there?’ She takes the baubles and lays them back in the box with great care. ‘I’ll see if Mrs Walker’s got a moment.’

  I sit down in an acid green chair, feeli
ng uneasy. She didn’t exactly seem bowled over by my creativity. Still, I suppose it’s Mrs Walker I need to impress.

  A twinge of apprehension grips me.

  Oh God, was this a bad idea?

  I can see the two women conferring in a glass-walled office behind reception, my box on the table between them, and I’m trying hard not to stare. I cross and re-cross my legs as I wait, feeling as anxious as if I’m about to be given my exam results.

  I glance around and my eye lingers on an elegant ladder-back chair, carved from oak, and the glorious bronze statue of an African woman wearing neck rings. They’re real works of art, worthy of a place in the most stylish of homes.

  And my little Christmas baubles?

  They’re not even particularly exciting Christmas baubles.

  They’re just plain glass.

  I shift awkwardly in my seat. Am I kidding myself here? Sure, Mum thinks there’s nothing more beautiful than my tree decorations. But she’s my mum, for goodness’ sake. She would think that.

  I glance over at the glass-walled office, just in time to see the woman called Mrs Walker throw back her head and laugh. Next moment, they’re both peering over at me as if I’m some kind of weird exhibit myself.

  Oh, God, what am I doing here? I should never have come.

  Hot with shame, I check to make sure they’re not watching, then I flee – out of the door, down the little flight of stone steps, heading for the bus stop.

  I can’t believe I was such an idiot, believing Fez when he said other people would love my creations.

  I just need to go home and forget all this nonsense. Wipe it from my mind.

  I only hope there’s a bus due soon because—

  ‘Miss Blatchett?’

  I stop and turn.

  Mrs Walker herself is running after me, shouting, red in the face from the exertion.

  When she catches me up, she can’t speak for a moment because she’s trying to catch her breath. Then she laughs and slaps a hand across her chest. ‘I didn’t realise I was so unfit. I suppose the last time I ran like that was the egg and spoon race, circa 1960.’ Her brown eyes sparkle with fun.

  She lays a hand on my arm. ‘You’re the Christmas bauble lady. We couldn’t let you get away.’

  I stare at her through blurry eyes.