by Claire Sandy
‘See ya, babe!’ With a toot of the horn, he was off.
High above Fern’s head, Nora slammed the loft window shut.
CHAPTER FOUR
October: Entrée
Up so early it qualified as night, Fern groped her way around the dark park, following the flashing light on Boudicca’s collar. ‘Why is it always me who walks the dog?’ she muttered into her scarf. The same reason it was always her who fed the guinea pigs. When Tallulah’s current obsession with the insect hospital ended, it would be Fern who’d deal with a ward full of legless beetles.
Skirting the wet black ribbon of the Thames, Fern averted her eyes from Adam’s apartment block, like a devout nun confronted with a builder’s bum. He was probably up there in the penthouse, snoring like a sick gnu on some absurdly costly mattress. It was odd that he lived somewhere she’d never seen. Odd, and somehow humiliating.
‘Hey!’ A tall figure waved from the gates, also bound up in scarves and topped with a woolly hat.
‘Hey yourself.’ Fern had time to regret not cleaning off yesterday’s make-up as Tinkerbell approached. ‘I thought I’d be the only one out this early.’
‘The dog was bored, so I thought, why not take him to the park?’ The Cockapoo yawned at his feet. ‘Fancy a coffee?’
‘Oh. Coffee?’ Fern queried the suggestion as if coffee was some mythical brew she’d heard tell of. ‘At this hour? Where?’ She sounded very much like somebody who didn’t want to go for coffee with Tinkerbell, when the opposite was true. He loomed over her, making her bend her head back to look into his eyes. It was worth the effort.
‘That caff.’ Tinkerbell pointed to a lit window in the dark row of shops opposite the park. ‘No pressure. Just an idea.’ He took a step back.
‘Coffee sounds great.’ Fern took a step forward, telling herself to calm the hell down. If Maggie or Sabre had suggested coffee, she wouldn’t have blushed. Nor would she have said ‘yes’, but there was no need to go into that now.
The coffee wasn’t great, and, unless you were into greasy Formica, neither was the café. The atmosphere at their table, however, made up for all that. Fern sat back, glad to be there, glad to be infected by Tinkerbell’s wry, playful mood. ‘So, listen,’ she said, relishing the contrast between the gloomy ‘out there’ beyond the steamy windows and this bright room. ‘I have a confession. In my head I call you by your dog’s name.’
‘Snap!’ Tinkerbell put down his ‘proper’ (i.e. Mother’s Pride and brown sauce) bacon sarnie. ‘Which is fine in your case, as Boudicca suits you.’
‘It does?’
‘Ya-huh! I can see you fighting the Romans in your chariot with knives sticking out of the wheels.’
‘Thank you. I think. You’re not really a Tinkerbell.’
‘How about Hal? Does that suit me?’
‘Yes. Hello, Hal. I’m Fern.’
‘Hello, Fern.’
Something moved beneath the surface of their words, as if both of them were listening harder than the silly jokes deserved. As if they were laying down a memory. For Fern, this was an abrupt about-turn in her dealings with what Nora would call ‘strange men’, a blanket term that covered all men who weren’t Adam.
Decades of being Adam’s Other Half had anaesthetized her to male charms. Obviously she’d lusted after sexy celebs – if Orlando Bloom could read Fern’s mind, he’d take out a restraining order – but she was a steadfast, loyal lover and had never indulged in even mild flirting. If she’d imagined a dating life after Adam, it had been a barren desert scene, with vultures circling overhead and Fern gasping on the sands. She’d never imagined a poky café where the couple at Table Four kept looking at each other’s mouths.
They gossiped about the dog walkers. Both were wary of Sabre, with Hal describing him as ‘murderer-y’ and Fern agreeing. They were both secretly afraid of Pongo and they both suspected that Maggie was lonely.
‘Poor Maggie,’ said Fern.
‘He lives by the station,’ said Hal. ‘Sometimes I see him letting himself into his house with a takeaway.’
That didn’t sound so bad to Fern. Some nights she’d kill to let herself into an empty house with a chicken korma in her handbag.
‘Where do you live?’
‘Um . . .’ Hal’s directness took Fern by surprise.
‘Am I being nosey?’ He put his hands up. ‘Sorry. I promise not to follow you home and murder you or anything.’ He grimaced. ‘Which totally makes it sound as if I plan to follow you home and murder you.’
‘I live on the corner of Archer Close, three streets away.’ And you’re more than welcome to follow me home.
‘That big house with the turrets and the porch?’ Hal clapped with excitement. ‘I love that house! It has soul.’
‘It really does.’ After Adam’s criticisms, Hal’s praise warmed Fern, as if somebody had finally appreciated a misunderstood child. ‘I’ve lived there for years.’ She didn’t dare say how many. As if not saying how old I am will make me younger.
‘You and Mr Fern, I guess.’ Hal looked her in the eye.
‘Not any more.’ Fern wasn’t accustomed to saying that. ‘It’s complicated.’ The bubble was burst. The caff was just a caff again.
‘Christ, I am nosey,’ said Hal. ‘None of my business. Sorry.’
‘I don’t mind talking about it,’ fibbed Fern, to make him feel better, to try and glue their bubble back together. ‘How about you?’
‘I’m footloose and fancy-free. Or single and suicidal, depending on the time of day.’
‘You don’t seem suicidal to me.’ He was rainbows, sunshine, unicorns. And I’m going mad.
‘I’m just putting a brave face on my despair.’ Hal flashed her one of his quick, conspiratorial smiles. ‘Some of my mates go from girl to girl, but I’m in no hurry.’
‘Quality rather than quantity.’
‘Exactly. I’m picky.’
‘Is that so?’ This frothy conversation was balm after the fractious interaction with the other males in her life. Fern smiled, wishing she’d brushed her teeth before leaving the house. Her morning breath could stun toddlers. ‘What are your deal-breakers?’
‘They must have a pulse. I’m a stickler for that. And just the one head.’
‘High standards indeed. Do they need a GSOH?’
‘Obviously, so we can LOL and ROFL.’
Fern couldn’t ignore the clock on the wall any longer. ‘I should get going.’ It was almost time to get Tallulah up for school. ‘I have to . . . do stuff.’ Just like that, her beloved daughter, light of her life, was transformed to ‘stuff’ and denied access to this roped-off area.
‘Me too. So much stuff,’ sighed Hal theatrically. ‘Tons of stuff, all over the place.’ He plonked down a note that would cover the bill.
‘Thank you,’ said Fern, watching him pull on his bulky khaki jacket, noting the lack of status symbols. No chunky watch, no flashy belt for Hal, despite his riches. ‘My treat next time.’
‘So there’ll be a next time?’ Hal had dimples and he knew how to use them.
As Boudicca pulled Fern along the pavements, away from Hal and towards home, she examined a thought clearly for the first time. ‘I fancy that man,’ she said into the dawn, as if chanting an ancient, forgotten spell.
The house came into view. Within its walls she was a mum and a woman struggling to make sense of the ruins of her relationship. Fern dawdled, hanging onto the silvery air of wonder that she’d never thought to feel again.
Along with the tingling excitement came vulnerability. Adam knew and accepted all her body’s peculiarities, but if she was on the market again, Fern wasn’t sure of her value.
Just as she made herself look at the gory bits in films, Fern forced herself to confront a scenario in which she unwrapped her orange-peel thighs in front of Hal. It was easy to imagine the horror in his unlined eyes.
Putting her key in the door, Fern shook off the cobweb of feeling and was back on predictable, solid ground.
‘Tallulah!’ she yelled. ‘Time to get up!’
‘I’m already up.’ Tallulah called down from where she stood at the end of Ollie’s bed, head on one side as she surveyed Donna, propped alone against the bed head.
‘Breakfast in ten mins,’ shouted Fern. ‘Don’t annoy Donna, please.’ The rules about Donna not staying overnight had been relaxed: she and Adam used to be vehemently against it but now, well, horses/stable doors.
‘You are six months pregnant,’ said Tallulah with dour authority. ‘The foetus is approximately twenty-eight centimetres long. About this length.’ She demonstrated the wrong length with her fingers as Donna nodded, straining to look interested through sleepy eyes. ‘It’s definitely human.’
‘That’s a relief.’ Donna rearranged herself in the tangled bedclothes. Fern was not allowed in this room, so the bed was never made and a faint smell of biscuit hung in the air.
‘Are you taking your vitamin D?’ Tallulah was stern, tapping a list she’d made on her Etch-a-Sketch. ‘Tell me about your discharge. Whatever that is.’ She gasped, dropping the Etch-a-Sketch. ‘OMG, Donna, what if it’s twins or triplets or fourlets?’
‘One’s plenty, Tallie.’ Donna let out an oof, throwing her legs over the side of the bed.
‘Can I feel?’ Tallulah was fascinated by the bump that had budded, so soft-looking yet so strong, beneath Donna’s Topshop ensembles. She put her mouth close and whispered, ‘Hello, niece or nephew. This is your aunt or uncle speaking. I already love you.’
Sauntering down to the kitchen, Tallulah picked up her mother’s phone, which was chirruping on the marble. ‘It’s Daddy.’ She handed it over. ‘Be nice.’
‘Yes, be nice,’ said Nora from the table.
‘I’m always nice.’ With the phone in one hand, Fern doled out scrambled eggs with the other. ‘Adam, good morning.’
Nora said, ‘Scrambled eggs make me tummy go queer.’
‘Can you talk?’ said Adam.
‘Yes.’ Fern buttered toast: not too much on Ollie’s, not too little on Tallulah’s, margarine for Nora.
‘Can I put you on the guest list for Saturday?’
The question took her back to their beginnings, when Fern would roll up to some grotty nightspot chewing gum, a bottle of illicit voddy in her handbag, and tell the bouncer ‘I’m with the band.’ ‘Which guest list?’
‘My gig. I told you. I think. Did I? Well, anyway, it’s Kinky Mimi’s comeback, our first live show in–’ mumble mumble ‘–years. We’re playing the King’s Arms.’
The King’s Arms was all tacky carpet and loos that only the truly desperate would consider. ‘It’s Halloween on Saturday. Tallulah will want to go trick-or-treating.’
‘Take her first, then come down. We don’t go on until nine. Please, Fern. Please come.’
It felt so good, so unusual to be necessary to Adam. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
‘Excellent. We need as many bums on seats as we can get.’
Maybe not as necessary as all that. Fern wondered if P.W. would be there, eating Dover sole and being mysterious. ‘Hang on, don’t go. We need to talk.’ Fern wedged the phone beneath her ear as she leaned down to feed Boudicca and toe Binkie out of the way. The table bayed for more toast. ‘About the hall.’
‘The hall?’ Adam sounded above such things, like a duchess.
‘Yes, the hall,’ said Fern with ironic patience. ‘Remember? I pointed out the damp patch by the coat stand and you said get a man in, so I got a man in.’
‘So far, so fascinating.’
‘The damp patch is gone, but now the hall needs repainting.’
‘So get another man in, one with a paintbrush this time.’ Adam said something else, but it was muffled, underwater-sounding, as if he’d covered the phone with his hand.
‘Is someone there?’ Early for visitors.
‘Nope. It’s nobody.’
Fern let a long pause unfurl, during which this nobody made a number of peeved noises. Evidently Nobody didn’t like her new name one little bit.
‘Anyway, back to the hall.’ Fern put Adam out of his misery as Donna appeared in the doorway, making the international sign for Can I have some scrambled eggs please? Fern nodded and pulled out a chair for her. ‘Should we go for off-white again? Or risk a colour? A nice sunny yellow might work.’
‘It’s your wall, Fern. Paint it whatever colour you like.’
As Fern put down her mobile, cracking eggs and ignoring Nora’s advice on how to crack eggs properly, she checked the gin bottle on its shelf. The clear liquid had inched further and further down.
This evidence of Nora’s secret boozing didn’t concern Fern at that moment. She was busy digesting ‘It’s your hall, Fern,’ and diagnosing the hard lump that had swelled in her throat.
The hands of the clock turned. Personnel at the table changed. The younger generation trailed out and Evka took their place, cosying up to Nora.
‘How was Buckingham Palace?’ Fern had managed to cajole Evka into wiping the microwave last week; progress was being made. ‘Did you see the throne?’ She enjoyed seeing familiar British things through Evka’s knock-off designer shades. Sometimes these stories turned X-rated, and Fern would try and look as if she heard such tales every day. She’d been quite proud of how calmly she’d listened to Evka’s tale of oral sex under the buffet table at the bowls tournament.
‘Throne is flashy. Bit common.’ Evka screwed up her full mouth. ‘Queen was not there. Is scam.’ Her hair had grown, and was piled up anyhow, her eyeliner flicked like a modern-day Nefertiti. ‘Did not even see bloody corgi.’
‘What’s next on the list?’ asked Nora.
‘I think I like to see traditional British punch-up in pub,’ said Evka. ‘Proper big one with smashed window and crying barmaid.’
‘I,’ said Nora, lifting her nose high in the air, ‘have never set foot in a public house. Nor have I allowed alcohol to pass my lips.’
Evka was admiring. ‘You are good woman, Nora.’
You are liar, liar, pants on fire woman, Nora.
‘Me,’ continued Evka happily, ‘I am not good woman. I prefer to be slut.’ She and Nora laughed heartily together. ‘Should we . . .’ Evka cocked her head towards Fern. ‘Tell her?’
‘Tell me what?’ Fern was on immediate red alert.
‘Ah. Yes.’ Nora toyed with a button on the latest of her inexhaustible supply of inoffensive M&S cardis. ‘Poor Evka’s been turfed out of her flatshare.’
Guessing what was coming, Fern tensed herself for a scrap.
‘My flatmates are evil wanker people,’ shuddered Evka. ‘Never do they clean loo. They steal my Peperami. They complain when I borrow shoe.’
‘I’ll help you find nicer people to share with,’ said Fern.
‘She already has,’ said Nora. ‘Us!’ She flung a podgy arm around Evka’s narrow shoulders. ‘I’ve told her she can stay here as long as she likes.’
‘Auntie,’ began Fern, ‘with respect—’
‘I see.’ Nora stood abruptly, Binkie rolling off her lap and landing on Boudicca with a thud. ‘Typical.’ She leaned her knuckles on the table. ‘Take no notice of me, as per usual. Perhaps I should go off and die quietly under a hedge.’
‘What?’ Fern was always blindsided by her aunt’s sudden leaps.
‘Yes, yes, I see it in your eyes.’ Nora looked heroically into the middle distance. ‘I’m old and useless. Throw me on the scrapheap! No, don’t bother. I’ll throw myself on it.’
‘Is all right, Nora.’ Evka’s hands fluttered at her chest. She seemed to be taking Nora’s diva strop seriously. ‘Do not upset self, please. I find other flat.’ Her eyes glistened.
Does Evka cry? The girl was so hard-faced, so grabby, but yes, she was crying, over Nora. ‘I give in!’ said Fern, literally throwing in the (tea) towel. ‘Evka, you can have the spare room. Auntie, please stop talking about the scrapheap. At this rate, I’ll beat you to it.’ She waited for them to compose themselves. ‘Wh
at shall I charge for rent, Evka? Something nominal.’
‘Rent?’ Nora banged the table. ‘You’d charge this little lost lamb rent?’
Little lost lambs rarely wear Wonderbras (Fern suspected Evka of wearing two at once; nothing else could account for the contents of her jumpers) but Fern couldn’t bear another scene. She’d lost control of her little Queendom. ‘Fine, fine, Evka, just babysit instead.’
‘I am happy to babysit the lovely Tallulah,’ said Evka graciously. ‘Rate is fifteen pounds per hour.’
‘Mum. It’s me.’
‘Fern! Is everything all right? Everybody OK?’
‘Yes, everybody’s alive and well.’
‘When I heard your voice I thought . . . Good. Good. The kids? How’s my Ollie?’
‘He’s, well, he’s, I’ll tell you his news another time. How’s your husband?’
‘He does have a name, dear. Dave’s very busy, retiling the pool. We’re trying to attract a better class of tourist, so we’re doing the place up a bit. When are you going to come and visit? You could all stay in our new family suite.’
‘There’s been some changes, Mum. Adam and I, we’ve kind of, we’re not living together any more.’
‘What? No!’
‘There’s no drama, Mum. It’s just a decision we came to. Together.’
‘Is there somebody else? Are you playing away? You and Adam can’t split up!’
‘Well, we can . . .’
‘The children. What about the children? They say youngsters go off the rails when this happens.’
‘Everybody’s still talking to each other. They see Adam all the time. Honestly, it’s going as well as can be expected.’
‘You better pray Nora doesn’t get wind of this.’
‘Nora’s living here.’
‘Are you mad? Did she break you and Adam up?’
‘No, no. She had to move out and she’s here temporarily. I hope.’
‘Don’t be so sure. Be careful, dear. Nora likes to ruin things. It beggars belief that she and a lovely man like your dad were siblings . . . Fern? You still there?’
‘Yes. Yes, Mum. It’s just that . . . I think that’s the first time you’ve mentioned Dad in years.’