Campari for Breakfast

by Sara Crowe

  After lunch, while Aunt Coral and her tenants were playing Beggar-My-Neighbour, I decided to go for a walk. I was feeling restless.

  There was nothing open in Egham but a shop selling things like tins of peaches, and it was one of those days where the sky can’t be bothered to get properly light. I could hear a brass band in the distance and watched a paper bag blow down the road in time to the oom-pah-pah. And suddenly, like we were magnets, I found myself at Joe’s.

  The Frys’ flat is in a conversation area, in keeping with them being part of the chattering classes. It was Mrs Fry who answered the intercom, surprised to hear my voice, and after a minute Joe came down in a private dressing gown with airplanes on it.

  ‘Sue!’ he said.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Sue.’

  It was as though he had only one word in his vocabulary.

  We weren’t allowed to fraternise at the flat, so we floated on his bike till teatime, stopping at a viewing point on the edge of Egham where he played me a tune on his Walkman. He confessed he had been playing it over and over to himself since we kissed. It’s called ‘Classic’ and the lyrics say something like ‘I wanna to write a classic, I want to write it in an attic . . . Yeah!’ I liked the idea of Joe going into an attic and writing me a love song. I wondered if that was what he was going to do after I’d gone, but he told me he had to go with his mother to visit relatives in Staines.

  On the way home the streets were lit up by winter displays of lights. I looked in the windows of houses. I always think strange lives look nice in the evenings.

  I have realised that I feel good with Joe. He appreciates the things I’d rather overlook: my turned-in foot that bends all my shoes out of shape; the way I pronounce a French starter. The time goes so quickly when I’m with him that I have to relive it at half-speed in my memory afterwards to get all the good out of it. I’m a sweet in a wrapper to the others, but Joe is able to unwrap me. It’s like the difference between sitting downstairs at a dinner, in uncomfortable tight trousers, hot and bored and tense, and then going up to lie on your bed with your trousers off, cool and interested and relaxed. My heart breaks at the thought that one day Joe will die.

  When I returned, Aunt C and Delia were very emotional about my going to see Joe. We hadn’t been to the coast and written each other’s names in the sand or anything like that, but try telling that to two old ladies who can’t conceive of anything but altars. I had a little talk with Aunt Coral about it, because I knew she was dying to know things.

  ‘It seems a part of me died the moment that Joe kissed me.’

  ‘That’s very dramatic.’

  ‘I mean it was the part that had wanted it to happen for so long, and I do not mourn the loss of it.’

  She looked into the middle distance, which is where she generally finds her wisdom.

  ‘One day you might yearn the other way – for the time when you were a girl.’ Then she scooted back to her tenants.

  ‘I don’t think I will,’ I said.

  Boxing Day

  I went with Aunt Coral and the Admiral for a meal in his private club this evening. They don’t ordinarily let in ladies, but make an annual allowance. The waiters were very pompous and served my food like I didn’t deserve it, sweeping my crumbs between courses as though I’d made a terrible mess.

  After the main course Aunt C left the table to go and powder her nose. She never says she’s going to the toilet. It’s because she was a young woman of the 1950s, and they had no shiny noses and no weeing.

  While she was gone I was left alone with the Admiral, and his manner was a little strained. I think that he felt ill at ease because he’s been persuaded that I made up the tramp. He’s heavily influenced by Aunt Coral, and this is her own opinion, because it’s more comfortable for her to think I imagined him, than that he was actually there. It’s her Carolinian nature, (it can be a little annoying).

  ‘I’m trying to talk myself out of the sticky toffee pudding,’ he said, with great relief when Aunt C returned from the toilet.

  ‘And what are you trying to talk yourself into?’

  They both decided on the sorbet.

  In the pocket between Christmas and New Year, a time that sometimes really drags, it is exciting to know that somewhere in Egham, a judge is reading ‘Brackencliffe’.

  Thursday 31 Dec, New Year’s Eve

  Aunt Coral hadn’t told anyone she’d asked Mr O’Carroll to attend the Ramblers’ Association Gala.

  ‘I don’t know how I managed to keep it a secret,’ she said, twinkling at me.

  ‘It’s a first,’ said Delia, who was, hirsute, blown away.

  The entire salon from Knightsbridge had turned up to the event at Grossacre Hall, which is the Ramblers’ Association HQ on the edge of the Egham borders. There was also Nigel from the Herald, plus the Nanas, Badger, Tornegus, Mrs Fry and team Toastie, including Sandy, Icarus and Mary-Margaret. There was Pest Control – Derek and Pigpen – and the regulars from the tyre place too, and finally Glenn Miller and Dean Martin. The Admiral joked that if his friend Gary Cooper had come that would have made it a hat trick.

  The attendees were handed the writers’ biogs as they filed into the hall, and I noticed a gentleman reading mine. Joe had written it up, and done a great job in bigging me up, when the terrible truth was that until that year I’d spent most of my life in a bedroom that was eight by eight. We were sitting together on a row of chairs marked ‘EHG’ on the back.

  There were two hundred overall in attendance, on top of which was the panel. To say I was nervous was to undersell it. And I’d made a fashion error, in that the playsuit I’d worn was too fiddly to go to the toilet.

  Mr O’Carroll stood up to give an opening address. He had a nice face that looked as though it spent a lot of its time in thought.

  ‘My thanks go to Ms Garden for inviting me to come this afternoon,’ he said, ‘and to the judges who have given me the privilege of awarding the winning prizes, but I think to begin with we are going to hear from . . . Arthur Dunn,’ he said, referring to his prompt sheet, and taking his glasses on and off often from his two sharp eyes.

  There was a big round of applause and then a boy in maroon corduroy came on stage.

  ‘He’s the warm-up,’ said Delia. She was in one of her own designs, which wasn’t suitable unless you were a flamboyant.

  ‘Why do we tell stories?’ said the boy. ‘Why do we want to write them? The Celts never wrote down anything but handed fables by word of mouth. But storytelling is an ancient art form, and I would like to sing you a song about it. Strike up please,’ he said, and Joyce from the church got up to play the piano.

  The Admiral swung his foot at a jaunty angle to the music and Loudolle was yawning. I felt every second build in anticipation and I urgently wanted a poo.

  Arthur finally finished and there was a polite round of applause, and then there were four other acts that followed. I don’t know how I managed to sit through it, my stomach was in taters.

  ‘So, just like a beauty pageant,’ said Mr O’Carroll at long last, ‘I won’t keep you waiting any longer. I will announce the individual winners, in reverse order. In third place …’

  My stomach erupted.

  ‘With her story, “The Stunt”, is . . . Lady Jillet from the Egham Remnants,’ he said.

  A lady with wispy hair got up from amongst her members who were patting her. She went up to collect a voucher, looking surprised and a bit disappointed, then returned to the Remnants where they all wanted to see her prize.

  ‘In second place is …’ said Mr O’Carroll. My inner drums were rolling.

  ‘“Roger Mead”, by Josef Fry of the Egham Hirsute Group.’

  We shot to our feet to applaud Joe. It was so thrilling and unexpected, and Joe looked at me with his mouth open, silently saying he couldn’t believe it. If it’s possible to be happy for somebody at the same time as wanting it so badly yourself that it hurts, then I was.

  ‘And now,’ s
aid Mr O’Carroll, ‘the moment we’ve all been waiting for …’

  The drums of my heart beat nearer. I thought of all the Groups and all the hours of toil in my room. Of all my days alone at Green Place, when I could eat prawn cocktail for breakfast if I liked and go to ‘Brackencliffe’ all afternoon. Of Cara and Keeper and Fiona, each a part of my consciousness. I thought of Aunt C and her gift of encouragement, and I thought of Mum throwing out an embroidered cloth to decorate Heaven’s table.

  ‘The winner of the 1987 Ramblers’ Association Gala, is …’

  My drums beat louder.

  ‘Loudolle Shoot from the Egham Hirsute Group with her story, “The Polo Player”.’

  The applause began, but not from the EHG. We were too surprised to move. As Loudolle got up to accept her prize, every disappointment I’d ever felt rushed to join in with this one and lumps assembled in my throat.

  She was handed a cheque for £250 plus an electric voucher. She looked like she’d been rehearsing shaking her hair while looking shocked. How I wanted to step up to her. I bet she bribed the judges. I bet she gave them special coffees. But how? We didn’t know who they were until today. They can’t have had any taste.

  She was just about to leave the stage and return to a Group in shock when Mr O’Carroll stopped her. ‘One moment, Miss Shoot, I’m sure we’d all like to hear the winning story,’ he said, ‘I know I would, having not had the opportunity to read it.’

  The crowd thought this was a good idea.

  ‘So if you wouldn’t mind reading aloud …’ he said, gently showing her where to stand.

  ‘I’m too shy, I couldn’t,’ she said, wriggling like a kitten.

  Too shy? She seemed to have undergone a complete metamorphosis.

  The audience started cheering, egging her on, but suddenly Loudolle dropped her pages and ran back stage. Delia went straight after her to find out what was the matter, immediately followed by Icarus, immediately followed by Mrs Fry.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr O’Carroll, ‘I was shy once too.’ He looked at the judges, who seemed equally baffled. ‘Perhaps another member of her group would like to come up and do the honours?’

  The Admirals all looked at me, but I was too distressed, so that just left Aunt C and Joe, who decided between them that Joe would do it. He was completely out of his comfort blanket, but Aunt Coral was too upset to do the job herself. So Joe went on stage for the second time, picking up the scattered pages and putting them back together. The audience was going mad by this point with the drama and anticipation, clapping profusely for him to start, so much that he had to quell them.

  ‘“The Polo Player”, by Loudolle Shoot,’ he said, and finally everyone fell silent. “She awoke on the course ground, as it sprung back to life beneath the shimmering frost. Calling Keeper to her, they set off together on foot. High, high she climbed, her skirts full of wind and Keeper gambling after, to yonder on the edge of the cliffs …” I’m sorry,’ said Joe, ‘but this isn’t right.’

  There was a silence in which nobody knew what to say. I was struggling to understand.

  ‘The boy is correct,’ said Mr Lucas who was head of the panel, ‘the story he’s started reading is the one we have chosen – the seventeenth century satire – but,’ he broke off to refer to his notes, ‘Ah, I thought so, the title page seems incorrect, the title of the winning story, is …’ He referred to his notes once more. “Brackencliffe!”’

  ‘And it’s by Sue Bowl,’ said Joe, pointing to me.

  ‘A satire?’ I said to Aunt Coral, who by this time had started sobbing.

  There was a moment of bewilderment while the audience put it all together, then there was a smattering of applause, which grew into a full-bodied round, and then the full-bodied round grew into stamping and shouting, before finally they exploded, chanting, ‘Author! Author! Author!’

  I stood up, though I couldn’t feel my legs. Joe shook my hand and then supported me to the lectern, before handing me my pages and returning to his seat. A hush fell in the village hall as if I were making a war speech. I began to read aloud in a voice too thin to hear. But mercifully the voice of emergency came to the rescue, which is what tends to happen when I’m shaken.

  As I neared the end I looked out into the faces of people old and new. They seemed to find it more entertaining than I would have guessed in a million years.

  ‘“Keeper, my Knight is come home,”’ I finished.

  There was silence.

  ‘“The End,”’ I said. They exploded again and Aunt Coral was on her feet.

  At least no one can look at my life and say that it’s beige.

  Coral’s Commonplace: Volume 5

  Copy of a letter received 30 December 1987:

  10 Charter Lane

  Derbyshire

  Dear Ms Garden

  Please accept my sincere apologies for the delay in contacting you. Owing to the highly sensitive nature of this matter, I have deliberated for a long time.

  For many years I have wondered if I might hear from you, and when I saw your ad in the paper on my visit to see Mrs Viller, I knew the day had come.

  You need not have been concerned about my not knowing about Jack and Cameo. Jack confessed it all to me after it happened, and somehow our marriage contained it. But your Father urged our silence, which we were quite happy to agree to, save only for Jack’s terrible feelings of guilt about the child. But then we discovered something which totally altered our position.

  What I have to tell you now is going to come as a shock, but after such a tragedy as this I feel compelled to set things straight. Jack suffered for years because of your sister’s claims. And I suffered too because I believed I couldn’t have children. But finally after years of trying we decided to investigate, and found as a result of medical tests, that it was Jack who couldn’t have children. I have the paperwork to back this up should you wish to see it. It proves without any doubt that he cannot have been your niece’s father.

  I know this must be very hard for you, but I hope it means you can move on with your search. I send my very best wishes and hope that you find who you are looking for.

  Yours sincerely

  Emily Marian Laine

  Sue

  Dec 31, Later

  AFTER THE GALA Aunt Coral threw a spontaneous party, to celebrate our win and also the brand New Year. But before the party got started she took me aside for a moment. I thought she wanted to congratulate me privately, but actually she wanted to talk to me about quite a different matter.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier today, I didn’t want to stress you before the gala,’ she started, and then she showed me a letter she had received that morning which I read with some concern.

  ‘So you see, we are back to the drawing board with the search for Buddleia’s father.’

  It was a great let-down to find that the trail had gone cold, and that Major Laine, God rest his soul, had been a red herring.

  ‘But why would Cameo have named him on the birth certificate? Unless Emily Laine is not telling the truth?’ I said.

  ‘But she says she has medical proof,’ said Aunt C. ‘It appears that one mystery leads straight to another.’

  Before we could talk any more, the doorbell went and there were lots of visitors in want of a host.

  ‘We’ll have to talk more in the morning,’ said Aunt C. ‘It is all somewhat bewildering.’

  But it was the cusp of 1987, and a New Year was heading our way. The candles were flickering, the glasses shone, and Mrs Bunion was back in the kitchen.

  ‘You know my Group,’ said Aunt C, showing off Mr O’Carroll, who she’d successfully convinced to come along.

  ‘And this is George Buchanan, Meriel Stock Ferrell, Daphne Podger, Mr and Mrs Rodriguez …’

  ‘How do you do,’ said Mr O’Carroll, taking the best chair, which had been left out specially for him.

  Outside, though it was dark, Delia had lit one of her bonfires. She’d been up in her room writing
letters to herself while Admiral Gordon tried to persuade her down. It seems to be the way she manages when she is stressed these days.

  She took me aside in the kitchen earlier in a profusion of apologies.

  ‘I am so sorry Sue. Loudolle’s very sorry about the Gala and fully intends to apologise to you. I don’t know what got into her. But in the meantime, I just wanted to say I’m so sorry – and well done.’

  Aunt C took the seat next to Mr O’Carroll, to settle him in. He is a reserved man for someone so successful; he is serious and has a depth.

  ‘Mr O’Carroll would like to speak to you,’ she said, when I came over with the voller vongs. ‘Let me take those.’ Then she moved off to mingle, giving me her chair.

  Mr O’Carroll took off his glasses exposing his two small eyes, placing them on his lap. ‘Your story was very good, very good. It’s not everyone who can write comedy.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, feeling truly disappointed that such a great man could miss my mark.

  ‘I wanted to ask if you might be interested in a place on my next writing course?’ he said. ‘I’ll waive half the fee.’

  ‘Thank you so much, I’d love to. Where will it be held?’ (I was hoping he was going to say London.)

  ‘Greece,’ he said, ‘on the island of Crete.’

  ‘Well thank you so much,’ I said, trying to appear normal.

  ‘You’ll just need five hundred pounds to cover you. We go through from January to April.’

  ‘It’s a long course,’ I said, not knowing what else to say.

  Then Aunt Coral caught my eye from her position among her guests, and came to join us, overwhelmed.

  ‘Excellent Sue, isn’t it excellent?’ she said.

  ‘But I can’t,’ I said, ‘I’m so sorry, but I can’t afford it.’

  ‘Excuse us, Mr O’Carroll,’ she said, quickly pulling me into a private area while making an excuse about the snacks.