Running Scared
Page 30
I wasn’t sure of that but tactfully kept quiet.
‘I’ve got a sort of cousin, way up in Shropshire, who’s got a daughter, and my pearls and a hideous tiara thing which no woman in her right mind would wear these days, are left to her. But I want you to have the earrings. I thought they’d match that purple skirt of yours,’ my landlady concluded.
‘Thank you, Daphne,’ I said humbly. ‘I’ll treasure them, promise.’
‘I am so sorry,’ she said, ‘that you’ll be alone for Christmas lunch. I really don’t want to go over to my nephews’, but they have been apologising nonstop and really, I know I’ve got to make it up with them eventually, so it might as well be on Christmas Day. Bertie is a very good cook, you know.’
I didn’t doubt it. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘I’ve got Bonnie.’
‘I had thought you might be spending the day with Mr Patel.’
‘He’s had to go to High Wycombe,’ I said. ‘He’s got a family dispute to patch up as well.’
‘Well, that’s what Christmas is for,’ said Daphne, adding on a note of doubt, ‘I suppose.’ She cheered up. ‘I’ll be back this evening. We can have a glass of wine then. Tomorrow I’ll poach us that nice piece of salmon in the fridge. Oh, there are plenty of things in the freezer, meantime. There’s an individual portion of chicken à la provençale. Why don’t you pop that in the microwave?’
‘This is it, Bonnie,’ I said to her, when Daphne had left. ‘This is independence. Christmas Day, just you and me, with a frozen chicken portion between us.’ I brandished the foil container at her. Bonnie’s ears drooped. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘you can have a tin of dog’s chicken dinner. It’ll probably have more chicken in it than whatever’s in here. We’ll eat Wayne Parry’s Maltesers for pud.’ The thought didn’t cheer. Activity was called for. ‘Want to go out for a walk?’ I asked Bonnie, producing the new lead.
We set off up the road. There was a Christmas Day sort of feeling in the air, people wearing silly smiles and greeting complete strangers. Cars passed filled with people and presents, all off to lunch with family or friends. Kids cycled along the pavements on new bikes. I’d thought going out in the fresh air might have cheered me up, but it made me feel worse, isolated. All I had to look forward to was a new year which would start off with dossing in Hari’s lock-up with my belongings in a couple of plastic sacks. I understood why Daphne was making it up with the gruesome twosome. In the end, they were her family, just as Ganesh had said.
When I reached the shops, things began to look up. To my surprise, I saw coming towards me Marco, blond hair flowing. He was snazzily turned out in a blue jacket in some shiny material and clean jeans without paint splashes. My heart rose.
‘Hello, Fran,’ Marco said. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘Same to you,’ I returned happily. ‘I thought you were in Amsterdam.’
‘Got back last night. I’m just going down The Rose for a drink,’ he said. ‘It’s open till lunchtime. Crowd of us meeting up there. Want to come?’
What do you know, Fran? I told myself in delight. There is a Father Christmas, after all. I asked about Bonnie.
‘Don’t worry about her,’ he said. ‘They don’t mind dogs in The Rose. The landlord’s got a pit bull. It’s out back,’ he added, by way of encouragement. ‘And it’s tattooed and lost its knackers and everything, all legal. The police come round and insisted. Don’t seem right, somehow.’
We made our way to The Rose. It’s an old pub and hasn’t changed its style much in fifty years. Downmarket is where The Rose feels it should be and downmarket it resolutely stays. It was packed to the door, the air filled with nicotine and boozy Christmas cheer. I picked Bonnie up because it seemed likely she’d be trodden on, and followed Marco to a corner table surrounded by people.
‘This is Fran,’ he announced, propelling me forward. A chorus of voices greeted me and wished me a happy Christmas. ‘This is Mike,’ Marco began to make a round of the table for my benefit, ‘this is Polly and this . . .’ It went on until we reached a red-haired girl in an advanced state of pregnancy who was prudently on the orange juice.
‘And this is Bridget,’ said Marco happily. ‘Meet the wife, Fran.’
You know, that Scottish poet had it right. The best laid plans of mice and men are apt to go pear-shaped. And there’s not a lot any of us can do about it.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen