‘No, no pain now. I can do most things, but I get tired more easily than your average twenty-one-year-old. And I have a weak chest, a combination of the polio and a bout of ill-timed bronchitis. It was touch and go at one point and the prognosis wasn’t good, but thankfully I’m still here.’ She turned and smiled, her hands still immersed in the water. ‘I have to keep going for Mummy’s sake, and for Louis’s too. She was truly devastated when my father died. Obviously you’d expect her to be upset, but her grief was unlike anything I’d ever seen. She took to her bed for months and left me to fend for our Louis. He was only a baby, and I hadn’t quite turned seventeen and still had all my own health problems.’
‘That must have been difficult,’ Delyth empathised. ‘You must be one strong young lady to cope with all that. How’s your mammy now?’
Jenny dried her hands on her apron and thought about her mother. The long silences that could stretch on for days, the hastily hidden half-bottles of whisky she’d find behind cushions. There were good days too, though, plenty of them. Her mother’s relapses into grief had lessened over the past four years. She excelled at her office job in the factory, which came with a decent wage, and was determined to make a comfortable life for her two children. She smothered Louis, babied him almost to the point of suffocation, trying to give him the love and protection of two parents but in doing so not allowing him to grow up, or experience the rough-and-tumble life of any other boy his age. Consequently, he was timid, shy and frightened of his own shadow. It was no wonder she had resisted the first wave of evacuations so vehemently. Nobody could protect her children as well as Connie Tanner could.
‘She’s much better now, thank you,’ Jenny said. ‘Not happy about having to send us away, obviously, but she knows it’s for the best and hopefully it won’t be for too long.’ She folded up the tea towel. ‘We’ll write to her this morning. Let her know we’re safe and have been welcomed into a lovely family.’
Delyth nodded. ‘That should put her mind at rest. I can’t imagine having to send my Lorcan away. I thank God he’s in a reserved occupation. I couldn’t bear to think of him fighting in some foreign country.’
‘He’s a credit to you, Mrs Evans. So thoughtful, and he’s a natural with our Louis.’
‘Thank you. I agree with you, but of course I’m biased.’ She stood up and turned to leave, pausing at the door to give Jenny a queer look. It seemed an age before she spoke again, and when she did, there was a note of steel in her voice that had not been present before. ‘Try not to break his heart, will you?’
6
2019
She dumped the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter, fished half a dozen used tea bags out of the plug hole and tossed them in the bin.
‘Hiya, babe.’ Beau’s arms encircled her waist as he kissed the back of her neck.
‘Would it kill you to put the tea bags in the bin, Beau?’
‘Ah, don’t have a go as soon as you walk through the door. I’ve been working flat out on new material today.’
‘Oh, really? And you couldn’t have found five minutes to run the vac round?’
Ignoring her question, he held her at arm’s length and cocked his head. ‘Let’s have a proper look then.’ He rubbed the ends of her hair between his fingers. ‘It’s not bad. A bit too short maybe.’
She instinctively tugged at her hair. ‘What? This was your idea. Chin-length you said you wanted.’
‘It’s fine, stop whining.’ He peered into the bag of groceries. ‘I’ll leave you to get the tea and then I’ll tell you all about my great idea.’ He kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Fetch us a can of Special Brew whilst you’re at it.’
‘Beau, can’t you at least get your own drink.’ She gestured around the kitchen at the unpacked bags and stacks of dirty dishes. ‘I’ve got my hands full here.’
‘Oh, okay then.’ He took a can from on top of the fridge, pulled the ring and took a long guzzle. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise it was so much trouble.’
After their meal, she lay on the sofa with her legs outstretched, her bare feet resting in Beau’s lap.
‘What do you want to watch then?’ he asked.
She didn’t care what they watched. She could happily just stare at him all evening. He was wearing his usual skinny black jeans, ripped at the knee, his old Jack Daniel’s T-shirt and a single strand of metallic beads. Unkempt, dishevelled and a tiny bit grubby, but utterly irresistible.
‘Never mind the television. Why don’t you tell me about this great idea you’ve had?’
‘Okay,’ he drawled. ‘If you insist.’
He pushed her legs away, stood up and fished a piece of paper out of his back pocket. He held it aloft, so high that she couldn’t make out what it was.
She tried to reach it. ‘Give it ’ere then.’
He snatched it away. ‘No, I’m going to give you a chance to explain first. I’ll give you a clue. It’s a receipt.’
She felt a flush of heat in her ears. ‘A receipt? What for?’
‘Seriously, you can’t remember making a frivolous purchase?’
‘Frivolous purchase?’ she echoed. ‘Erm, no. I . . . I haven’t bought anything for myself in ages. I can’t think . . .’
‘So the lipstick was for me then?’
‘Lipstick? But I haven’t . . .’ She sighed with relief as she remembered. ‘Oh, that one. That was a present for Jenny.’
‘Jenny?’
‘You know, from Green Meadows. The one who turned a hundred yesterday. I told you, you never listen.’
She picked up her magazine, idly flicking through the pages, indicating that the conversation was over even though her gut told her it was far from it.
‘Are you for real, Candice? You spent seventeen pounds fifty on an effing lipstick for a centurion?’
‘She’s a centenarian. A centurion is summat to do with the Romans.’ She returned to the magazine, staring at the blank space where the picture of the ravishing model used to be; the one with the short hair that perfectly complemented her elfin features instead of making her look like a pre-pubescent schoolboy. She could feel her throat tightening as tears threatened.
Beau sat down beside her, his tone gentle as he stroked her cheek. ‘What are you like, eh? You’re such a soft touch. It’s one of the many things I love about you, but we can’t afford it if we’re both going to reach our potential.’ He held up the receipt again. ‘Things like this are damaging to our ambitions. You want that beauty course, don’t you?’
‘You know I do.’
‘Then it’s a good job I’ve got the perfect solution.’
‘Please tell me it doesn’t involve buying a lottery ticket.’
He reached down the side of the sofa and brought out a red hard-backed book. ‘This . . . this is the answer.’
She sat up a little straighter. ‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a ledger.’
‘Come again?’
He shuffled towards her and opened the pages. ‘See all these columns here, this is where we record our transactions.’
‘Transactions?’
‘Yes, expenditure and that. This column here is where we write down exactly what we’ve spent our money on.’
She pushed the ledger away. ‘Seems like a lot of faffing about to me.’
‘Candice, you don’t have to worry about it if you don’t want to. Let me take charge.’ He waved the receipt in her face. ‘We both know how hopeless you are with money. We’ll never save anything if you keep on with this reckless spending.’
‘Reckless spending? For God’s sake, Beau, it was one lipstick and it wasn’t even for me. I can’t remember the last time I bought anything for myself. You might like to lounge around in the same pair of jeans and T-shirt for days on end, but I wouldn’t mind the occasional new top every now and then.’ She folded her arms and turned away from him. A few seconds of silence passed before she felt him nuzzling her neck.
‘Babe, you know it makes sense.’ He traced
his finger along her collarbone. ‘Come on, don’t be like this. I’m the muggins who’s going to be doing all the work. All you need to do is give me a receipt for everything you spend. We can then work out where there are savings to be made. It’ll just make us think about where our money’s going. Hmm?’ He nudged her shoulder. ‘What do you say? Shall we give it a whirl? It’s entirely up to you, babe, we won’t if you don’t want to.’
He obviously took her silence to mean she wasn’t convinced. ‘Okay, you’re right. It’s a terrible idea. Who cares if you have to work at the Final Curtain for the rest of your natural? Here’s me thinking you wanted to better yourself, but if you’re happy taking care of other folks’ bodily functions for the minimum wage, then I’ll say no more about it.’ He moved to the end of the sofa, picked up the remote and aimed it at the television.
She sneaked a look at his profile. His high cheekbones and ridiculously long eyelashes were wasted on him. Wasted on any man for that matter. He was right, though. It was going to take a determined effort for them both to achieve their dreams.
‘All right then, we’ll give it a go.’
He pressed the mute button. ‘Only if you’re sure, babe. I don’t want to force you into anything.’
‘I’m sure.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sorry, I know you’re only trying to help. What do I have to do?’
‘Nothing. I’ll do all the boring nitty-gritty stuff. I’ll try to fit it in with everything else I’ve got going on. All you need to do is give me the receipt every time you spend anything. That way we’ll see exactly where our money’s going and where we can make savings.’
She snuggled against his chest, grateful that he was taking things so seriously. ‘Thanks, Beau.’
‘I doubt there’ll be any spare cash to squander on a trip to Italy, though,’ he continued. ‘But this way we’ll be able to save enough for us both to go away together one day.’
‘Oh no, it’s fine, Jenny’s paying for everything.’
She noticed his lips stiffen. ‘Is she now?’
She wasn’t in the mood for another one of his sulks about the trip. She knew he would never give his blessing, but she’d promised Jenny she’d go with her and she had no intention of breaking that promise. Beau would just have to get used to the idea.
7
You get to do a lot of sitting around at my age. Let’s face it, I’m not the most agile person in here. Upstairs, I’m still as sharp as a tack, though. I was once fluent in three languages, so maybe that’s helped to keep the old grey matter from turning to sludge. I like to be occupied, keep my brain ticking over with Sudoku or crosswords, that sort of thing. I used to enjoy playing bridge and poker, but holding the cards became difficult. There’s many a time I’ve dropped my hand, revealing everything I’ve got to my delighted opponents.
‘Come on, Frank,’ I say. ‘You’ve been staring at them tiles for half your life.’
He’s feeling a bit more himself since last week. So much so that he was up for a game of Scrabble, but he’s taking so long over his go that I’m sure his mind’s still elsewhere.
‘We should set a time limit,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t know how long I’ve got. It’s all right for you, you’re only a youngster. I might pop my clogs before this game’s over.’
He allows me a gracious smile. ‘You’re good for a few years yet. A hundred is the new eighty.’ The big red ring on my calendar flashes up in my mind. God, I hope he’s right.
He finishes placing his tiles on the board. ‘There you are. I make that . . . let’s see . . . dum-de-dum-de-dum . . .’
He’s pretending to work it out but he knows damn well what it adds up to.
‘Thirty-eight, plus the fifty for going out, so that’s eighty-eight.’
‘Well done, Frank,’ I say through gritted teeth. There’s no way I can win now. It’s good to see the smile back on his face, though.
‘Ernest was an absolute demon at Scrabble. I could rarely beat him. He really was a formidable opponent.’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Unlike me, you mean?’
There’s a strange look in his eye that I can’t quite interpret. ‘You’re formidable in so many other ways, Jenny.’
Candice breezes in and takes a seat at the table. Her hair has been forced into a stubby ponytail and she smells of chip fat. She sniffs the crook of her arm. ‘Phwoar, I’m going to have to change my clothes. Mrs Culpepper paid me extra to give the extractor hood a good going-over, and then I got stuck into the fridge.’ She examines her fingers. ‘I’ve broken two nails in the process, but it’s worth it for this.’ She pulls a roll of notes out of her tabard pocket and lowers her voice. ‘Thirty quid in cash.’
‘That’s lovely, Candice,’ I say. ‘Make sure you treat yourself to something nice.’
‘Oh God, no. I’m giving it to Beau. He’s started an official fund so I can save up for Beauty Therapy Level Two.’ Her face takes on a dreamy look, one that makes me want to shake her, to be honest. ‘He’s so thoughtful.’
I have a horrible niggling feeling, but she seems so happy I’m forced to keep my opinions to myself. After all, I’ve never even met the bloke. ‘Has he got any more concerts in the pipeline then?’
She laughs. ‘Concerts? He’s hardly Ed Sheeran, Jenny. No, not yet, but he’s still waiting on the nod for a regular slot at a bar in Fallowfield.’
‘I see, well let’s hope something comes of it.’ I fold the Scrabble board in half, trapping the tiles to make it easier to funnel them into the cloth bag.
‘Did you win?’ asks Candice.
‘Did I ’eck as like.’ I toss my head in Frank’s direction. ‘This one here had the Q, the X and the Z. I can’t compete with luck like that.’ I wink at him to show I’m not really a sore loser.
Candice holds out the tile bag for me as I tip them in. Her phone buzzes in her pocket and she gives a furtive glance towards the door. Mrs Culpepper doesn’t like the staff to have their mobile phones on whilst they’re on duty. I can see her fingers are itching to check who it is.
‘Go on, have a look,’ I say. ‘I won’t snitch.’
She gives me a grateful smile and takes out the phone. After a few seconds, her hand flies to her mouth and she all but manages to stifle a squeal.
‘Good news?’ I ask.
‘It’s Beau,’ she says, nodding furiously. ‘He’s got that regular slot I was just telling you about. Thursday nights at the Lemon Tree, payment in cash.’
It comes as no surprise to me that Beau wouldn’t be contributing to the economy. No pesky taxes for him.
‘Did you hear that, Frank? Her boyfriend’s got a regular . . . erm . . . gig at the Lemon Tree. We’ll have to go along.’
Candice seems to find this hilarious. ‘It’s not your type of place, Jenny, but I’ll take a video with me phone if you like and you can see for yourself how talented he is.’
She shoves the phone back into her pocket as Mrs Culpepper appears in the doorway. ‘Dinner is served,’ she announces in her posh, unidentifiable accent.
The meal was excellent. They always are in here. Simeon, the head chef, is such a character he really should have his own reality show. Most of the time he’s in his chef’s checked trousers and white gravy-splattered tunic, but when he does appear in his civvies, he’ll think nothing of teaming red trousers with a – brace yourself – mustard jacket! I’ve seen him wear a straw boater with a gold and green striped waistcoat and spotted bow tie, just to walk to work. He has a rather cavalier approach to hand-washing, but nobody in here has died of food poisoning yet, as far as I know. He always comes out of the kitchen to check we’ve enjoyed our meals. I think he likes fishing for compliments, to be honest, and I always oblige. His French apple tart would not look out of place in a Paris patisserie. It’s hard to tell how old he is because he’s overweight in the way chefs often are and his puffy face bears no wrinkles. I’d guess at around forty.
This evening, he squats down beside my table, his knees cracking. ‘How was ever
ything tonight, my angel?’ He’s also an outrageous flirt.
‘Simeon, that apple tart of yours is gastronomic perfection.’
He flicks me under my chin, his face only inches from mine. ‘Your opinion on my tart means the world to me.’ He clamps his palm to his chest. ‘Thank you.’ I actually think he means it.
‘It was wonderful, Simon,’ agrees Frank. ‘Exceptionally light and buttery.’
‘How many times? It’s Sim-e-on, not Simon.’
I know Frank gets his name wrong on purpose. He finds it funny when Simeon throws his arms in the air and huffs and puffs as though that missing ‘e’ is the most important thing in the world. I suppose it is to him. If your surname’s Sidebottom, you need a slightly more exotic first name.
I usually like to take a nap after my evening meal. Just twenty minutes or so to bridge the gap before bedtime. The sun’s early March rays are streaming through the conservatory glass, giving the impression that it’ll be hot outside. Candice fans herself with the Radio Times.
‘Do you fancy a little stroll, Jenny? It’ll be good to get some fresh air. Make you sleep better.’
The gardens do look quite resplendent, I have to admit, and Candice does spend a lot of time indoors. I think the fresh air will benefit her more than it’ll benefit me. I nod my agreement. ‘All right, Candice, but can you get my chair, and a blanket for my knees. It won’t be as warm as it looks.’
I hope I’ve already established that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with my brain, but let me remind you that I am one hundred years old, suffered from polio as a child and now have arthritic joints. Evening strolls are not something to be entered into lightly. I’m so relieved Candice has agreed to come with me to Italy. I think it’s caused some friction between her and that boyfriend of hers and I’m sorry about that, but he needs to grow up a bit. Everything’s in place now anyway. Flights, hotel, driver, it’s all sorted. All I have to do now is stay alive.
Candice huffs a bit as she pushes my chair to the edge of the circular pond, startling the heron, which takes flight, a goldfish flapping in its beak. She applies the brake and sits down on the bench beside me, gnawing at the skin around her thumb.
The Memory Box Page 5