by Isla Dewar
‘Well, the reports were your idea.’
Charlie said, ‘I sent amusing reports that Bernice read out?’
Lucy said, ‘Yes’.
‘My reports were so funny you didn’t mind paying for them?’
‘It wasn’t too bad. Not when there’re so many of us. We all chipped in fifty quid.’
‘Fifty? All of you?’
His usual charge was about thirty pounds. Mrs Florey often pointed out that his invoices were a disgrace. Charlie said he hated taking money from people who were distressed, confused and missing someone they loved. Mrs Florey countered that he was a softie and he should consider his own needs. ‘You have to pay bills. You actually have to eat. You have to survive.’
‘All fourteen of us,’ said Lucy.
‘Fourteen. That’s . . .’ Charlie stared ahead, lips moving, calculating. ‘Um, seven hundred pounds. Christ. Some people don’t earn that in a year.’ How lovely, he thought, if I’d actually got that money.
‘I know that. But you looked out for all of us. So we paid. You worked hard.’
Charlie said, ‘Promise me you won’t pay out any more money.’
‘After tomorrow I won’t have to.’
He looked at her.
‘Tomorrow we all meet and hand over money to our lawyer who is handling the case against Brendan. Breach of promise and emotional exploitation. He’s proposed to all of us. It’s payback time.’
‘Don’t,’ said Charlie, ‘just don’t.’
‘Oh, but I will. Tomorrow night, dinner at Bernice’s place, we finally start the ball rolling.’
Charlie wrestled with his conscience. He ought to tell her the truth. He hadn’t written the reports and he hadn’t billed Bernice. He was sure she must have pocketed the money. But if he told Lucy about his suspicions she would have to warn the others and someone would tell Bernice. He was a duped man. He wanted revenge. He needed a plan. He had to keep his mouth shut till he formed one.
‘You’re going to get hurt.’
‘I’ve been hurt. Now it’s his turn.’ She turned to Charlie. ‘No mercy.’
Out on the street Charlie looked round. He was wary, confused, nervous and cold. The day was warm enough, but he felt malice in the air and pulled his collar up. His demons were following him. And they were up to no good. He was sure of it. Brendan was somewhere watching, Marvin Hay was also watching. And leading the troop, quietly spying, was his mother.
51
It Makes Me Weep, the Fool You Are
He cycled back to the office, to Martha. ‘Bastards,’ he shouted. ‘Bastard bastarding arseholes.’
The old bike, built for comfort not speed, rattled, clanked and shuddered. He wouldn’t get paid for his work now that the batch of clients he didn’t know about had forked out. They wouldn’t pay twice. He’d been duped, taken for a fool. He was a fool. He manically pedalled on.
He crashed into the office, stood heaving in air unable to speak. Martha watched. Charlie stormed across the room, opened the third drawer of the filing cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whisky and two glasses. ‘Bastards. Bastarding bastards.’
‘Actually,’ said Martha, ‘not for me. It’s too early for whisky.’
He poured her one anyway, sat on the sofa and shouted, ‘Absobloodylutely amazing. Absobloodyfuckinglutely amazing. Would you believe it?’
‘Probably not. What’s absobloodylutely amazing? And who is a bastarding bastard?’
‘Bloody Bernice and bloody Brendan have bloody got together fourteen women who have been courted by Brendan. He has apparently proposed to them. They all think I’ve been sending reports about what Brendan’s been getting up to.’ He stopped, turned to Martha. ‘You haven’t written any reports and sent them out, have you?’
‘No. I absobloodylutely haven’t.’
‘Now I discover Bernice has charged them all fifty quid each, saying that was my fee.’
Martha said, ‘What?’ She got up from her desk, picked up the whisky and sat on the sofa with Charlie. ‘It beggars belief.’
‘How could I have sent them a bill? I don’t know who they are. Bernice and Brendan must have written the reports themselves.’
‘You have to admit it’s a neat little scam. And a good lump of money for the scammers.’ She sipped her drink. Felt the raw burn on the back of her throat and knew it was far too early in the day for whisky.
‘I’d never charge that much,’ said Charlie.
Martha thought Charlie’s fees absurdly low but this wasn’t the moment to mention it.
‘Why me?’ Charlie spread his palms.
‘Why not you?’ said Martha.
‘I should be cynical and shrewd. I shouldn’t get duped.’
‘You keep saying you’re a muser and finder of people. A dreamer. Ideal scam fodder, if you ask me.’
‘I do not need to be told that.’
Martha thought he did. ‘Seven hundred pounds is a lot of money, but it’s hardly worth the effort Bernice has put in.’
‘That’s just the icing on the cake. A little amusing sum. The big crunch comes tomorrow when large chunks of money are handed over.’
‘How much?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘A lot.’
‘Where is this to happen?’
‘Bernice’s place. They’re having dinner.’
‘You have to stop it.’
‘How do I do that?’ He refilled his glass, took a huge swig.
‘You just do it. People are getting cheated. You have to.’
The evening was soft, balmy. The car windows were rolled down. Martha and Charlie could hear the sounds of early evening – people arriving home from work, car doors slamming, voices from front gardens, songs on teatime radios. A sudden squall of sparrows stormed squealing from an untamed hedge, making Charlie jump. He was nervous. They were parked on the opposite side of the road from Bernice’s house half an hour before the dinner was to begin so they could watch the arrivals.
Charlie was in a bad mood. He’d hardly eaten all day. He complained his stomach wasn’t up to confrontations. ‘Food lies uncomfortably on a nervy stomach. It just lies there with no digesting going on. Gases steam and rise. There is embarrassment.’
He wasn’t enjoying this. ‘When I had to sit an exam at school, I’d wish I’d get run over on the way there. A broken leg would do the trick, I thought. Time off school in bed, sympathy and puddings and no exam. Perfect. I feel that way now.’
‘You’d rather have a broken leg than go in there and expose a couple of crooks? What happened to your anger? Sometimes anger is good.’
‘I’m just scared. I don’t like confrontation. I’m still angry. It’s lurking behind my fear.’
‘You’ll be fine. Vinnie of Vinnie and the Vixens will be by your side.’
‘Vinnie of Vinnie and the Vixens is used to confrontation. She relishes it. She’s fearless. I’m not. Women en masse terrify me.’
‘Charlie, it’s part of being grown up. You have to do what’s right. You have to stick up for yourself.’
‘I don’t think of myself as a grown up. Maturity is a façade for me. I have a grown-up body complete with necessary hairy bits. But in my head I’m six and when the going gets tough I want to run away.’
‘You’ll be fine.’ She reached over, put her hand over his and squeezed it.
The touch was lovely, warm, gentle. It was still with him after the hand was withdrawn. But it didn’t help. This was going to be awful.
Bernice answered the door. She wasn’t pleased to see them. ‘What the hell do you want?’
She wore tight-fitting white leather trousers and a shirt with deep ruffles down the front. It was pink. Not a subtle pink. It was violent, sugar-mouse pink. The pink of little girls’ fairy tale fantasies. Charlie’s nightmare colour. He opened his mouth to say that he and Martha had come to wish all the ladies well. A lie. But one he thought would get him into the house where he could denounce Bernice and warn everyone against parting with money. But
instead, to his surprise, the words that came out of his mouth were the ones that formed in his head.
‘What a hideous shirt.’
Shocked, Bernice let go of the door and gripped her shirt. ‘I love this shirt. Bloody cheek.’
The door swung open and two women lingering in the hallway spotted their hero. ‘Charlie!’ they hooted. Waved. Signalled others to come. ‘It’s Charlie.’ More women, all wearing pink, appeared from the living room. They smiled, rippled fingers at him. ‘Hello, Charlie. Come and say hello to us.’
He was beginning to panic. Too many strange women dressed in pink coming at him. One stepped forward, pushed past Bernice, shook Charlie’s hand, giggled and gushed, ‘I’m Mary. So pleased to meet you at last. Come in and say hello to everyone. We owe you so much. None of this would be happening if it wasn’t for you.’
‘Me?’ Charlie pointed to himself. ‘What did I do?’
‘Everything.’ Mary spread her arms; everything was huge. ‘You brought us together. You pointed the way. This is the night we wind it all up. We get the lawyer started. And we’re doing it in pink. Pink outfits. Pink wine. It’s fun. Now you come along. It’s the icing on the cake.’
The aromas wafting from the house were take-away food, perfume and alcohol. The mood was party warm-up – shrieks of laughter, women holding drinks and waving, the shrill high-volume exchange of gossip, Dusty Springfield singing ‘You Don’t Own Me’. Charlie didn’t like it at all. He sensed developing hysteria.
He turned to Bernice. ‘I don’t know exactly what you’re up to, but it’s wrong. I know it’s wrong.’ And to Mary he shouted, ‘It’s wrong. It’s wrong. Don’t do it. Don’t part with money. Just don’t.’
‘Mary,’ said Bernice, ‘I need a little private word here. If you don’t mind.’ She shut the door behind her, leaned forward, nudged Charlie off the doorstep and stepped outside to join him and Martha on the path.
‘Bugger off, the pair of you. I’ve put a lot into this. More than you know. Spoil it and you’ll be sorry. Both of you. I mean it. Bugger off.’ She pushed Charlie’s shoulder. ‘Turning up here unannounced, shouting don’t. Cheek of you.’ She turned on Martha. ‘I’ll put a stop to you both. Bugger off.’ Flapping her hand in a shooing motion she stepped towards them. She was a woman accustomed to being obeyed. Martha and Charlie took a step back. She moved forward. They moved further back. The hand flapping and shooing continued. Martha and Charlie backed up to the gate.
‘There’s the matter of my fee,’ said Charlie. He stood his ground.
‘You’ll get it. Send me the bill.’
‘You have already billed all these women. I know that. You charged a fortune. What the hell is that about?’
Bernice folded her arms, gave Charlie a pitying look. ‘It’s called mark-up. I’m a businesswoman. You bill me, I pass on the charge and make a little something for myself.’
‘You’re making more than a little something.’
Bernice sighed the dismissive sigh of a woman dealing with a fool. ‘It’s hardly my fault if you charge peanuts. I checked you out before I hired you. Your fees are pathetic. Laughable. No doubt you feel you are helping people in distress. Being kindly. Where does being kindly get you?’ She moved closer and poked Charlie in the chest. ‘I’ll tell you where it gets you – nowhere. It gets you laughed at and trampled and beaten down and left lying in life’s gutter. Being kindly is for idiots.’ She stalked back to her front door, waving her arms. ‘Idiots. Fool. Half-baked, soft-hearted twits. God help us all.’ She opened the front door, turned. ‘You’re a fool, Charlie Gavin. It makes me weep, the fool you are.’
52
Good Drunken Walk
Sophie was in the kitchen washing the supper dishes. Evie was in bed sleeping. It was half-past eight. The doorbell rang. Sophie pulled a towel from the rail and, drying her hands, walked to the top of the stairs and shouted, ‘Come on in. The door’s not locked.’ She went back to the sink to finish her chore.
She heard someone coming up the stairs and, assuming it was Duncan, told him to sit. ‘I’ll make a cup of tea in a minute.’
‘Don’t want a cup of tea. Brought this.’
Sophie turned. Jamie was standing in the doorway holding a bottle of wine. ‘Come to say sorry and goodbye.’
Sophie said, ‘Sorry’s good. But goodbye?’
‘Going away. Australia. New life and all that.’
Sophie said, ‘Good for you. You’re not planning to take Evie, are you?’
Jamie shook his head. ‘Brought a goodbye drink.’
She fetched two glasses and put them on the table.
Jamie looked round. ‘This place hasn’t changed.’
‘Why should it change?’ said Sophie. ‘It’s perfect the way it is.’
Jamie said, ‘Perhaps it is. It’s homey. I’ll get the corkscrew.’ He’d almost grown up here and knew where things were kept. He opened the bottle and filled the glasses.
Sophie looked at him. ‘You’ve got older.’
‘So have you.’
‘You used to be such a nice boy. Kind. Willing to please. You’d do things for us. Fix things. Carry heavy stuff. Run out for messages, potatoes and the like.’
‘I was a bit of a wimp. I got over it. You were always a bossy old bag.’ He took a drink.
‘You wouldn’t know a bossy old bag if she bit you on the bum. I did a lot for you and Martha.’
‘You poked about in our lives. You wouldn’t leave us alone. You were always at our house.’
‘I bought a cot and nappies and clothes and a pram and all sorts of things for the baby. I helped. I cooked. I looked after little Evie when Martha was exhausted. You sat in the shed and smoked dope.’
‘Only to get away from you.’
‘You’ve turned nasty.’
‘I’ve always been nasty. So have you. I’m better at hiding it, though.’
Sophie finished her glass, refilled it, passed the bottle to Jamie and waited till he had refilled his before she drank. ‘You left my lovely daughter. You actually ran away from her. You’re an arse.’
‘I panicked. Martha was pregnant and so was Grace. I didn’t know what to do. And there had just been an embarrassing chip situation with Evie and it all crowded in on me. I ran. I know. I’m sorry.’
‘So you should be. My Martha was ill after that. I grieved with her and for her. I grieved that she’d married a pig like you.’
‘She duped me into it. I took a boring nine-to-five job for her. I gave up my dreams. I stopped being me.’
‘Dramatic hogwash from a coward. You couldn’t stand the strain of parenthood and responsibility.’
‘Grace came back. She came for me. I couldn’t believe it. Grace is a goddess. I still can’t take it in. A woman like that loves me. She’s wonderful.’
‘So is my Martha.’
He smiled a small, cynical smirk. ‘Grace can cook. She has dress sense. She’s a fantastic caring mother. She can sing. She writes songs. She can play the guitar.’
A hard act to follow, Sophie thought. Martha could cook but not well enough to boast about. She couldn’t sing or write songs. She could still do the three chords she’d mastered on her old guitar but that didn’t qualify as actually playing it. ‘Martha is a loving mother. She’s kind. She’s clever and she does a splendid imitation of Cher when she’s had a bit too much to drink.’
Jamie snorted and gave this claim a slow handclap. ‘Wowee.’
‘If my Martha hadn’t started a band, your Grace would be nowhere now. It took Martha’s courage and belief for Grace to come out of her shell and find herself.’
‘Talent like Grace’s will always out. She’d have made it anyway. She’s too gifted not to shine.’
Now Sophie snorted. ‘Rubbish. You talk bollocks. Always have, always will.’
‘You smothered us. You pushed your way into our lives and turned us into horrible versions of you. We became boring. Like you.’
‘You are a bullying, swaggering
, obnoxious chauvinist.’
‘You’re a manipulative, pushy old matriarch.’
‘Talentless boor.’
‘Bumbling, old-fashioned parochial witch.’
The glasses got filled and emptied swiftly.
‘Conceited, arrogant lout,’ said Sophie.
‘Useless, past-it nosey hag.’
Sophie considered the bottle. It was empty. ‘I’ve got another. It’s over there. On the rack.’
It was miles and miles away on the other side of the kitchen. She rose and, breathing carefully, keeping a steady eye on her goal, crossed the room, took the bottle and turned to face the trek back to her chair.
Jamie clapped and whistled. ‘Good drunken walk.’
Sophie bowed and handed the bottle to him to open. ‘Thank you. I always appreciated being appreciated, even if it is by a garishly dressed failure.’
Jamie smoothed the front of his floral shirt. ‘This is how it is with fashion these days. I dress to please myself not you. And I’m not a failure. I own a part-share in a very successful record shop. I manage three up and coming bands. I make enough to feed and clothe my family. Next time you see me, when I come back from Australia, I’ll be a millionaire.’ He filled her glass.
‘I hope you’re not driving,’ she said.
‘Nah, I got the bus.’
They gazed at one another and found themselves smiling.
Sophie said, ‘I enjoyed that. I am newly discovering my aggressive side.’
He nodded. ‘You’re doing well. Another ten or fifteen years and you might even be a virago or Amazon.’
‘Here’s to me.’ She raised her glass. ‘I suppose you want to see Evie.’
The child was sleeping. Her jaw was set and it looked as if she slept with the same vigour she used when she was awake.
‘She’s a beauty,’ said Jamie. ‘I love her. Martha’s done her proud.’
‘Indeed,’ said Sophie. ‘You will note her stunning resemblance to you. She’s yours. No question of it.’
‘I know,’ said Jamie. ‘I’ll write to her. I’ll send her gifts from afar and I’ll come back to see her.’
‘And you’ll be welcome.’ She held his face and kissed his cheek. ‘I look forward to a return match.’