by JL Merrow
Maybe he could somehow get hold of a less objectionable set of jammies by tomorrow morning? Say, from Willoughbys? Could the gossip about what he might be trying to hide about his normal nightwear be any more embarrassing than exposing his actual nightwear to his colleagues?
Yes, yes, it could. Heath in particular could usually be relied on to come up with some inventive ideas.
Damn it. Rudolf jammies it was. Now all he had to do was get them back from Mum and Dad’s. Robin sighed. He was going to have to make a detour on the way home tonight.
It felt strange, pushing open the wrought-iron gate and walking up the garden path of his childhood home as a visitor, rather than a resident. As if he’d moved out far longer ago than a couple of months. The house even loomed slightly smaller than it did in his memory.
Although he still had his key, Robin felt oddly as though he should ring the doorbell. Fortunately, he remembered in time just how much Mum disliked going to open the door to unexpected callers— “If I’d wanted to be put out, I’d have invited them.”
He opened the door and stepped inside, calling, “Hello? Mum? Dad?”
Nobody answered, but he could see his mum through the open door to the kitchen. She was standing by the worktop, glaring at a pile of potatoes as though they might start to peel themselves out of sheer embarrassment.
“Hi, Mum,” Robin said as he walked into the kitchen.
“Oh, Robin.” Mum’s voice was flat. “I’m in the middle of cooking dinner. If you’d said you were coming over, I’d have made sure I bought enough for you. As it is, I’m afraid it really won’t stretch. And in any case, you were the one who was so keen to move out and get your independence. I’m not at all sure how independent you’re being if you think you can come here for a meal at any time of the day or night—”
“I’m just here to pick up some stuff, Mum,” Robin said quickly, although he couldn’t help thinking that if there was any time of day or night when he might reasonably have had some hope of getting a meal, it was dinnertime.
She brightened. “You’re taking your Doctor Who toys at last, are you? I must say, I won’t be sorry to see the back of them. They take up a great deal of space in the second spare room—”
“The second . . . Oh, you mean my bedroom? And they’re figures, not toys.”
“Don’t interrupt. It’s rude. And of course there’s all the dusting. I knocked three of them off the shelf when I went in the other day, and— Robin? Robin! I hadn’t finished speaking to you.”
Robin took the stairs two at a time. He should have known his collection wouldn’t be safe without him to care for it. What if she’d chipped the paint? Or worse, actually broken any of them?
He pushed the door to his room open. The little china plaque that had proclaimed it to be “Robin’s Room” for as long as he could remember was gone, leaving only a faint darker patch in the paint to show it had ever been there. Inside, too, there had been some changes made. A table with Mum’s sewing machine now took up most of the floor space. She seemed to be in the middle of making something from a vast quantity of spectacularly vile floral material in garish shades of pink and orange. Robin shuddered, crossed his fingers it wouldn’t turn out to be curtains for his new flat, and trod carefully round it to his bookshelf.
Most of his books having moved on to either the new flat or the Oxfam bookshop, he’d left the shelves looking rather bare. They were bare no longer. A comprehensive collection of Mills and Boon classics now graced the top shelves, which was the first shock—Mum read romance? Surely they weren’t Dad’s?—swiftly followed by the second shock, which was the sight of his prized collectibles shoved roughly into a corner on the bottom shelf. Half of them weren’t even standing up.
And they were dusty.
Robin mentally apologised to each precious figure as he took it from the geek ghetto and carefully inspected it for damage. All were intact, thank God—but there was no way he was leaving them here a moment longer. If current trends continued, they’d be in the bin by New Year. Maybe he shouldn’t have downplayed to Mum about just how much they’d cost?
On the other hand, that might have led to her listing them on eBay.
Robin suppressed the urge to march downstairs and demand to know why Mum hadn’t taken more care of his stuff. He’d had urges like that before, and they never ended well. Instead, he dived under the bed to find a storage box and dumped out its contents, a collection of cotton reels and embroidery threads, on the bed. He regarded the resultant tangle with great satisfaction and a hefty dollop of guilt, which he manfully pushed down into a corner of his soul he did his best to ignore. It was getting a bit overfilled these days.
Now, how to pack them to be safe on the bus? Sadly the original boxes weren’t an option— Mum had had most of those in the bin seconds after he’d opened them and taken out the figures, and on one memorable occasion, before. Inspiration hit, and he pulled open his bottom drawer. Yep, still full of the lifetime’s supply of socks Mum had made it her mission to provide him with over the last twenty-four Christmases. He carefully socked up each figure, then padded the box out with his pyjamas.
By now the smell of cooking meat and onions had started to drift up the stairs, and Robin’s stomach gurgled loudly as he tried to decide firstly, if he had the makings of a meal at home, and secondly, if he’d be able to make it back there without keeling over with hunger. Maybe he could grab something from the kitchen while Mum’s back was turned?
When he got downstairs, though, he found Dad waiting for him.
“Funny how all the strays turn up at meal times.” Dad huffed. “I suppose I’ll have to ask your mother to put some more veg on.”
“No, it’s—”
“I’ve already spoken to him,” Mum yelled out from the kitchen over the sound of sizzling. “I’ve told him he can’t stay. It’s for his own good.”
Dad rolled his eyes. “First she worries about you not eating enough, now she thinks starvation is good for you.”
“I’ll be fine, Dad. I’ll get some chips on the way back or something. I’d better go—don’t want to disturb your dinner. Er, nice seeing you.”
Dad huffed again and wandered back towards the living room. Robin clutched his storage box tighter to his grumbling stomach, and headed out into the dark, autumnal street.
He got lucky with the buses, catching one with only minutes to spare, which gave a much-needed boost to his spirits. With a whole seat to himself, he got out the Doctor and Rose to check they’d survived the journey so far. Yes, they were looking good. Robin gave them a smile and a little pat, and wrapped them up again carefully in their socks. When he glanced up, a short-haired teen in a man’s overcoat gave him a smile and a thumbs-up, but Robin’s stop was coming up so he could only give his fellow fan a nod in passing.
All in all, he was in much better spirits by the time he stepped off the bus and feeling totally equal to a short detour to the chip shop where the scary probably-Mrs.-Archie worked. He prided himself on serving difficult customers with a smile, so he shouldn’t be scared of anyone on the other end of the service transaction. It would be good for him too—stop his ridiculous pining after someone who was already taken. His stomach growled in agreement. Robin squared his shoulders, hefted his storage box high, and marched through the streets to the chippie.
There was a cluster of customers milling around waiting for their food to be cooked, so it wasn’t until Robin had excuse-me’d his way into the shop that he saw him.
Archie, his back to Robin and his baby in his arms, talking to Scary Chip Shop Girl, who had a big smile on her face as she cooed at her kid. Robin stalled, and whether it was his sudden stillness or his constant Robin-ness, he didn’t know, but something made her glance up. Their eyes met, and her smile became a quizzical frown.
Archie turned, one eyebrow raised. “Robin?”
Robin shifted the box in his arms. “Uh, yeah. I mean, hi. Again.” He dried up.
Archie coughed. “I
brought Jerrick in to see his mum at her job.”
“That’s good. Um, it’s never too early to instil a good work ethic.” Robin swallowed.
Mrs. Archie’s frown lost its quizzical quality, which upped her Scary quotient quite a bit. “Are you going to order something? Only there’s people behind you.”
Robin whirled. Yep. There they were. People. “Um, sorry.” He turned back, reluctantly. His appetite had fled. Clearly it had more sense than the rest of him. “Er, small chips, please?”
“One pound sixty. Salt and vinegar?” She was viciously shovelling up chips as she spoke.
Robin rested his box against the counter and fumbled for the right money, eyeing the growing pile of fried food with misgiving. “Yes, please. And, uh, that was a small chips.” He glanced at Archie for support, and found him giving the proceedings an equally worried eye.
“That’s all right. Mate of Archie’s, aren’t you?” She added another obscenely large shovelful to the greaseproof paper, doused the chip mountain in salt and vinegar as though treating a particularly virulent slug infestation, wrapped up the parcel and thrust it at him. “Here you go. Enjoy.” Her tone subtly suggested that by enjoy she meant choke on it.
“Thanks.” Robin grabbed the chips—he needed both hands—and deposited them on his storage box. Then he hefted his load, muttered, “Bye,” and left. What had he ever done to Mrs. Archie? Apart from fancy her probable husband, that was, but she didn’t know that, did she?
Oh God, did she?
Robin slept uneasily after his overlarge supper, and woke up late, with barely enough time to pack his sleeping bag before haring off to work.
He bumped into Azrah on the way into Willoughbys. “Got all your stuff for tonight?”
“I’m all set.” Azrah patted the surprisingly small roll she was holding under one arm, and eyed his bulging bin bag, unimpressed. “Looks like you’ve got a double duvet in there. And his-and-his pillows.”
“We can’t all afford the latest in microfiber technology for our camping gear.”
She snorted. “You, camping? The last time you were in a tent was in my mum and dad’s garden, and you thought my Mr. Bouncy was a rat and ran home screaming.”
“Kangaroos and rats have many similarities,” Robin said stiffly. He frowned. “Don’t tell me you’ve got your pyjamas in there too. Or your, um, nightdress?” Having not had a sleepover with Azrah since they’d reached high school age, Robin was a little unclear what grown women wore in bed. He had a strong suspicion his mum’s full-length button-to-the-neck winceyette nightie wasn’t exactly the norm.
Robin realised Azrah was staring at him. “Um, sorry, did I miss something?”
“My nightdress? No, I haven’t brought it. Think I’m letting all the pervs in this store cop an eyeful?”
“I thought you liked letting your inner slut out to play?”
“That’s play. This is work. I’ve got a professional image to maintain.”
Robin raised an eyebrow.
“Hey, I will have one day.”
He patted her shoulder. “You just keep thinking positive like that. See you at lunch?”
“Can’t—I’m having lunch with Gail. We’re going to go over a few things for the Loyal Customers’ Christmas Shopping Evening. See you tonight.”
Damn it. Robin had wanted to talk to her about his encounter with Archie and his family in the chip shop. Get a female perspective on what it all meant—and in particular, the way Bridge had described him as a mate of Archie’s. Had Robin misread everything? Was she just being nice last night, rather than trying to kill him with calories? Did that mean he’d got it all wrong about her and Archie?
Deprived of Azrah’s advice, he resorted to asking his first female customer, an elderly lady buying novelty socks. “If a woman tries to feed you up, does it always mean she likes you? That’ll be ten pounds, by the way.”
“There you go, dear. Well, I’d say if she cooks for you, she’s probably a keeper. Most of these modern girls seem to think that’s all beneath them. You get a ring on her finger before she changes her mind.”
A wedding ring! Why hadn’t he thought to look for that? On either Bridge’s or Archie’s fingers? What an idiot. Robin slapped his forehead. “Ow. And thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And good luck with your young lady.”
“Thanks.”
She leaned over the counter, patted his hand, and lowered her voice. “Probably best not to go hitting yourself in front of her, though. She might think you’re a little strange.”
Usually, Robin liked the end-of-day ritual of cashing up and tidying the department. Not that he didn’t enjoy serving customers, but it was always nice to be able to turn off the helpful smile, and let his resting bitch-face out to play.
But today, they had the photoshoot to get through. Robin half thought of trying to sneak off and hope he wouldn’t be missed, but Gail was already bearing down on him like an iceberg to his Edwardian cruise liner.
“Have you brought your sleeping bag?” Gail sent him a piercing look.
Robin tried to make his nod enthusiastic. “Sleeping bag, jim-jams, the lot.”
“Oh, excellent. I knew I could count on you to go above and beyond.” Her expression softened minutely, then hardened again. “Well, don’t just stand there. Go and get changed. The advert is due to run in tomorrow’s Hitchworth Echo, so there can’t be any slip-ups. Robin, why aren’t you getting changed?”
Robin scurried to the loos with his bag.
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer stared apprehensively in the mirror at him as he rolled up his overlong pyjama sleeves and hoiked up the trousers as far as they’d go. At least he looked festive. Unfortunately, he also looked like a preschooler at a pyjama party. Robin sighed, and padded out to face his doom.
The shop staff congregated by the front doors, sleeping bags in hand or slung over a shoulder.
“Love the jim-jams, mate.” Heath grinned down at him. He was dressed in work trousers and an improbably large cable-knit sweater.
Robin glanced around. He was the only one there in pyjamas—everyone else was still in their work clothes.
He was definitely the only one there clutching a teddy bear.
Worse, he realised as Gail shepherded them outside, there were some rough sleepers sitting bundled-up in doorways giving them curious looks. There was the large, friendly bloke Robin sometimes bought a sandwich for, and Sheppy’s Mum who always told him she was fine, thanks, but Sheppy wouldn’t mind a dog biscuit. Oh God, was Gail about to ask them to move on? Or worse, would she just pretend they weren’t there and do the photoshoot around them?
Robin sprinted over to Gail as fast as his bunny slippers would let him. “I think we ought to ask them,” he gasped out.
Gail turned, her harassed frown easing as she took in what he was wearing. “That’s the spirit, Robin. Ask who, what?”
“The, um, the people in the doorways. We should ask if they mind being in the pictures. I mean, they might have reasons they don’t want to be in the papers.”
Gail’s voice took on a mildly panicked tone. “If you think they’re evading police, we certainly don’t want them in our advert.”
“No—I meant they might be, um, escaping a violent situation? Or they might not want their families to know they’re homeless and worry about them? I’ll deal with it,” he added desperately.
She nodded, looking puzzled. Robin had always wondered what she thought about the homeless people of the town. He was starting to suspect she’d never actually noticed them—or had tuned them out, ignoring them like you’d ignore a litter of kebab wrappers, or an even less appetising memento of a really good night out.
Robin made his way over to Sheppy’s Mum. He’d half expected her not to want to be photographed. She tended to hide her face a lot, showing only the locks of bright-orange hair that spilled out from her hood, so he wasn’t surprised when she stood up. “I’ll give Sheppy her walk, then. You keep the place
warm for me, yeah?”
Robin nodded. “Thanks. And I’ll buy you a bag of chips when we’re done.” It was a shame chips didn’t keep, or he could’ve brought some of his mega-portion from last night.
“Oh, don’t worry about that. But if you’re passing Sainsbury’s, Sheppy wouldn’t mind a few biscuits, would you, girl?” She patted the dog’s brown side with her tattooed hand and a heavy tail wagged, batting against Robin’s pyjama leg.
“It’s a deal.”
The large, friendly bloke—his name turned out to be John, but he promised not to attack Robin with a quarterstaff on any local bridges—was happy enough to get his face in the papers. Or at least, he was after Robin promised him a cod and chips with mushy peas for his trouble. “And make sure you get the mushy ones. I’m not having those poncey garden peas. Roll all over the bloody place, they do, and you’re finding them in your bedding for weeks afterwards.”
“Mushy. Not garden. Got it,” Robin assured him, and hurried back to Sheppy’s Mum’s sad little bundle of belongings.
Azrah was arranging her own sleeping bag not far away. “God, it makes you think, doesn’t it? Here’s us complaining about having to be out in the cold for half an hour while they take a photo, and these people have to live out in it.”
“I’m not complaining about being out in the cold.” Robin was undergoing a novel experience: feeling grateful that his mum had insisted on buying him thermal undies despite him never having been near a ski slope in his life.
“Well, I am. It’s bloody perishing out here. And Mary-from-Haberdashery won’t stop going on about how the cold’s bad for her joints. That’s why I moved down here to be with you.”
“And here I was thinking it was because you love me so much.”
“I might love you more if you moved a bit closer. Ditch the cuddly toy and cuddle me instead. And seriously, you brought your teddy? Did your mum make you bring him?”