Three Angry Women and a Baby

by Kerrie Noor

  “I need a drink,” groaned Henry.

  “Should we call an ambulance?” muttered Francis.

  “Nah,” said Tunie, handing his pal a large whisky. “He’s a tough ol’ boot.”

  “I had no idea he was so flexible,” muttered Edna.

  “Me neither,” muttered Francis.

  Henry sipped his whisky like it was medicine. “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

  “Oh, for Chrissake,” muttered Ted.

  Mum looked around. “Did I see George?”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Resurrection

  A hero’s welcome is transient.

  The band, taking its cue from Henry’s departure, played a few songs and then took a break. The drummer had finally appeared, and Helen, with the aid of coffee, was helping him sober up.

  As people left the ballroom for fresh air and a smoke, they caught sight of Mum on the other side of the reception desk talking of “going back in.”

  Many stopped, some insisting on a selfie.

  “You are a hero,” said one.

  “Giving hope,” said another.

  “And comedy,” said the waiter.

  Mum, basking in the attention like an author at her first signing, didn’t see George appear . . .

  I was discreetly feeding Baby Bea at the time, blissfully watching the world go by and enjoying being left to “get on with it” as George slid Mum’s favorite whisky by Francis’s side.

  “For the hero of the hour,” he said, watching Mum embrace her five minutes of fame with the modesty of a five-year-old.

  Soon, Ted and Edna, with an I’ve had enough look, left, Ted mumbling about “one last dance before the band packs up” and Edna unable to hide her surprise.

  “Seriously, us dancing?” she said.

  “Well, if that bozo can, anyone can,” muttered Ted.

  Henry didn’t seem to hear; he had quieted down and stopped the dramatic wincing and moaning in pain. Ms Buxom and the Blonde had appeared with an “oh my God” and were hanging on to his hands like he was on his “last legs.”

  Ms Buxom was working her way through a packet of wet wipes, mopping Henry’s brow while the Blonde was dolling out them out.

  “Any permanent damage . . . to . . . err, things?” the Blonde asked more than once, like one of us would know.

  Henry said nothing, occasionally smirking with a “no worries in that department” whisper.

  He seemed soothed, almost comatose, until Amy’s gran appeared.

  “God bless you, Beatrice,” she shouted with a caustic look in Henry’s direction. “And we’ve got you on video.”

  Henry sprung up. “Video?”

  “You can watch it anytime,” said Amy’s gran.

  “If it wasn’t for me, there would be nothing to video,” hissed Henry.

  “Amy’s got a link or something,” said Amy’s gran.

  “I was upstaged,” said Henry.

  “Upstaged?” George threw a look at me.

  “I said I was upstaged,” Henry yelled at Amy’s gran.

  “Upstaged?” Amy’s gran yelled back. “I call it rescued. If it wasn’t for this heroic woman here”—Amy’s gran gestured with her stick—“your daughter wouldn’t be talking to you.”

  “She saved your arse,” said Tunie bluntly.

  “My arse didn’t need saving,” shouted Henry.

  “Aye right, and I’m a well-done hamburger,” shouted Amy’s gran.

  “Amy was almost in tears,” said Francis, “until Beatrice came on.”

  “Amy?” said Henry. “My Amy? In tears?”

  “There, there,” muttered Ms Buxom as the Blonde pulled another wet wipe from her bag with a “here.”

  “Better find her,” said Henry, looking from Ms Buxom to the Blonde.

  “Probably best to leave her at the moment,” muttered Ms Buxom.

  “Yeah, she’s pretty angry at you,” snapped Francis.

  “Amy? Angry?” said Henry.

  “You nearly ruined her wedding. I’d be buying Beatrice a drink,” said Tunie.

  “And I’d go easy on yours,” muttered Francis.

  “I just wanted . . .” Henry flopped back onto his back.

  “What?” said the Blonde.

  “Her to like me . . .” said Henry.

  Mum’s cackle rang through the air.

  “Like she likes . . . her mum . . .” said Henry.

  “Aww, that’s so sweet.” The Blonde looked at Ms Buxom.

  “To please her, show her something,” said Henry.

  “You showed her something all right,” said Tunie. “You showed her what a tit you are.”

  “Helen was always the good cop, me the bad cop.” He feigned a smile at his two women. “I was working, hard—real hard—earning money.”

  “Cheers,” laughed Mum.

  “I just wanted a moment,” said Henry. “Is that too much to ask?”

  “After that performance, a moment is as possible as Beatrice doing a tap dance,” said George.

  Mum cackled.

  “But I spent a fortune on this wedding,” said Henry. “Doesn’t that count?”

  “Have a whisky,” said Tunie.

  “Best to wait,” said Ms Buxom.

  “Yes, timing.” The Blonde patted his hand. “It’s all about timing.”

  It was George who finally took Henry home. After several attempts to catch Mum’s attention, George gave up, grabbed Henry under his arm, and, with Tunie on the other side, took him home.

  By the time Mum had discovered the whisky George had left for her, there was no one in reception except for me watching Baby Bea sleep and the resident cat purring beside me.

  Amy and Gary had left, the band were playing their last song, and most had gone home, apart from the odd stragglers propping up the bar or asking for just one more “Auld Lang Syne.”

  “Is he coming back?” she said, wheeling herself about the reception.

  “He never said,” I said. “But why don’t you ring him?”

  Mum didn’t answer instead she talked of “ending on a high, leave ’em wanting more.”

  I looked about the dregs of the wedding and, taking the hint, took her home.

  Next day I arrived to see Helen looking out of the Mum’s kitchen window looking pensive.

  She waved, and I headed to the kitchen.

  Mum had told Helen about Henry’s conversation the night before.

  “Good cop, bad cop? How many whiskies had he had?” said Helen.

  “That man is jealous of you,” said Mum.

  “Jealous of me?” said Helen.

  “He meant every word,” said Mum, “didn’t he, Sheryl?”

  Helen looked at me; I shrugged. “He did seem . . . remorseful?”

  Helen stared for a bit like she was trying to take it all in.

  “Never in a million years would I have thought . . .” She paused over her coffee. “I just assumed I annoyed him, that . . . well . . . he hated me.”

  “He probably does,” said Mum flippantly, “but the jealously is an underlying factor—root cause.”

  “What are you on about?” I said.

  “He wants what she has,” said Mum.

  I threw her a look.

  “Just a guess-like.”

  “I was always so scared of him,” muttered Helen, staring at her coffee.

  “But people like you—Helen,” said Mum. “No one thinks about blokes fixing things, they just moan about the mess. But you, you fix like a man, then tidy up like a woman. Now that’s impressive.”

  “What about me? I tidy up,” I said.

  “And you’re a great mother, everyone can see that,” said Mum.

  “What about me and Baby Bea?” I said.

  “So cool and calm,” muttered Mum.

  I watched Mum finish her coffee and gave up. Expecting a compliment from her was like expecting a heat wave at Christmas time.

  “Has anyone seen George?” she said.


  Neither of us answered.

  “Heard from him?” said Mum.

  “No,” said Helen and me in unison.

  “Bugger,” muttered Mum, wheeling to her room.

  “Why don’t you just ring him?” I said to her back.

  “I’m fine, who needs him?” said Mum.

  “But you’re not fine. George did a lot for you,” I said.

  I missed him . . . he made life easier.

  “Well, he’s not here, so I’ll just carry on,” said Mum.

  “Mum, don’t be so stubborn.”

  I really missed his help.

  “He’s a turncoat,” said Mum, posed at her bedroom door.

  “Turncoat?” I said, rolling my eyes at Helen.

  “Yes. He should ring me—he left me at the wedding.”

  Helen washed her empty mug under the tap and, with a robust shake, muttered, “All that time I wasted smashing things, swearing, yelling.”

  “Aye, a lot of time is wasted on that sort of thing. No point being stubborn,” said Mum.

  “Like you would know,” I said to Mum.

  “What a waste of anger,” muttered Helen.

  “No point holding on to that sort of thing,” said Mum.

  “He ended up making a tit of himself anyway,” said Helen.

  “Once a tit, always a tit,” yelled Mum, heading into her bedroom.

  “Exactly,” I yelled at Mum’s back.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Making Up

  Recovery and resurrection are not always the same thing.

  It took weeks for Mum to return to normal and even longer for Henry to appear in public again, despite the attentions of Ms Buxom and the Blonde, who, according to Tunie, had been seen driving to and from his place “done up to the nines.”

  Mum revamped her wardrobe to orange and wore it all the time, parading about like someone famous until folk forgot and reverted to treating her as Beatrice, a crusty old woman in a wheelchair again.

  She began to talk of contacting the paper, writing in the comments page about the library and the need for storytellers.

  Maybe even resurrect the petition.

  And before I had time to ask her how she was going to do this without George’s help, one of the committee members from the community centre contacted her regarding the walls of gratitude. She had seen the pictures of Beatrice on YouTube, and those on the committee had an idea.

  Mum, high on talk of being needed, insisted on a visit to the co-op.

  “I want to celebrate with a decent whisky,” she said.

  Normally it would have been George who took her.

  I helped Mum onto the co-op carpark. She, like a kid on a new bike, zoomed into the chilly winter wind, stopping at the entrance to the co-op.

  The doors flashed open, greeting us with George clutching a loaf of bread, slotting coins into a red Poppy Appeal can.

  The woman jiggling the tin laughed a “thank you.”

  Mum stopped.

  George stared at her.

  Their eyes locked.

  “You got a few coins to spare?” The woman rattled her tin at Mum.

  “Sheryl? Any change?” said Mum, her eyes still locked with George.

  I pulled out a few coins.

  Mum began to smile.

  George nodded.

  “Chubby was right,” she said to George.

  “Right?” said George.

  “About you coming to the wedding.”

  “It was very last minute,” said George.

  “So, Chubby was right then,” said Mum.

  “Well, strictly speaking, no, it wasn’t like it was planned.”

  A red-haired woman of similar age to Mum appeared.

  She slid a block of cheese into George’s hand. “He’s hopeless with shopping.” She smiled at Mum.

  “Oh,” said Mum.

  I didn’t know what to say . . .

  She stretched out her hand to Mum. “I saw you at the wedding, my name’s Rebecca. You were stunning at the wedding, wasn’t she, George?”

  He nodded.

  “My mother was in a wheelchair. She hardly left the house, and there you were . . .”

  “Beatrice is a one-off,” muttered the tin rattler. She shook her tin at a passerby.

  “George says you play cards,” said Rebecca.

  “Well, I haven’t for a while,” said Mum.

  “Neither has he,” she said, “have you, George?”

  “What?” said George.

  “I said you haven’t played cards for a while.”

  “Oh that,” he muttered.

  “I told him he should keep it up, phone his partner, but who listens to your cousin?” Rebecca smiled again.

  “Cousin?” said Mum.

  “Hmmm.” Rebecca nodded. She turned to George. “You miss cards, don’t you George?”

  “Yes . . . well . . . yes, I do.” He looked at Mum. “Definitely I do.”

  “Me too,” muttered Mum.

  Silence . . .

  The door swished open.

  Two children ran in.

  The tin rattler shivered as she jiggled the tin at the mother; the mother looked away and carried on inside.

  “So, George, what time are you picking Mum up then?” I said.

  George looked at Mum. She fluttered her eyes girlishly.

  “The usual?” he asked.

  Mum nodded with a large smile.

  “Excellent,” said George with a large smile back.

  That afternoon, in the co-op, Mum bought not only her favorite whisky but a selection of George’s favorite cheese and a spare toothbrush, and as she lined them up at the checkout, I said nothing.

  I knew better.

  Helen, having struck up a rapport with the drummer at the wedding, was excited. While sobering him up, they had talked of drumming. He was an ancient man who had played drums all his life.

  “He used to teach,” said Helen, “years ago, but he couldn’t remember the last time someone had bothered to listen to him, let alone ask him to teach. In fact,” she said, “he seemed to brighten up at the prospect, even set a date . . .”

  “He was drunk at the time,” I said.

  “He said he is going to start with the basics on a cajon,” said Helen.

  I threw her a look.

  “We’ve had a few lessons, he says I am a natural.” She looked at me. “I could play when you belly dance.”

  I told her I hadn’t done any for a while and the classes seemed to have “fallen by the wayside.”

  “You should get Neff to start up again. Imagine learning with drums,” said Helen.

  The thought did appeal.

  We arranged to meet Neff in the Stables coffee shop to talk about drumming and dancing. Neff seemed excited. In fact, she was so excited she was there at the table waiting for us, telling the waitress all about the new classes. The waitress had all the time in the world; the cafe was empty apart from a young couple just finishing in the corner, and the cook was reading the paper.

  “You should come, it works wonders for the pelvis,” said Neff as I pulled up a seat and Helen went to the ladies.

  I was just in the middle of ordering coffee when the Blonde and Ms Buxom appeared and stood at the counter, staring at the menu like they had never seen it before; apparently, they were as welcome at Henry’s aunt’s café as Helen.

  They were ordering a takeaway, rolls, and sausage, and as they argued over tomato or brown sauce, Neff called them over.

  Neff, who knew them as Janice and Janet, seemed to be on best-buddy terms as they greeted her with a hug.

  “Fancy joining us for some belly dancing?” she said. “We are thinking of starting up again with drums this time.”

  Janet and Janice didn’t answer; instead, spotting Helen appearing from the ladies, they grabbed her and launched into a monologue of how Henry was “a broken man.”

  “Broken man how?” said Helen.

  “His daughter won’t answer his cal
ls, says he ruined her wedding.”

  “I see,” muttered Helen, pulling up a chair.

  “Can you speak to Amy?” said Janice.

  “Yes, give the poor guy another chance,” said Janet.

  Helen stared at the menu, saying little.

  “He’ll get over it,” I said. “A man like him always does, he’s ruthless.”

  “I’m sure you can help.” Janice looked at Helen.

  Helen remained silent.

  “You know you want to,” muttered Janet.

  Helen continued to stare at the menu. “I’m not sure I can.” She slid the menu aside and looked at the two women. “I mean, Amy is her own person.”

  “She is kind though,” I said.

  “That’s true,” said Helen. She let out a long sigh. “She’ll probably come around. Just give her time. Seeing your father in a Lycra kilt is not something you can easily forget.”

  “A kilt, in Lycra?” said the waitress.

  “He feels like an idiot,” muttered Janet, brushing her blonde hair from her eyes.

  “We’ve known him for years,” said Janice. “Never seen him like this before.”

  “Never heard of a kilt in Lycra,” said the waitress.

  “Well, neither did we until we saw it,” muttered Janice.

  “But wouldn’t it stick to things?” said the waitress.

  “Like cling film,” said Helen.

  The couple in the corner chuckled.

  “Except of course when you cartwheel,” I said.

  The waitress’s eyes widened. “He cartwheeled in it?”

  “Like a starfish,” I said.

  The cafe erupted; even Janet and Janice laughed.

  “If only he were trying to be funny,” said Janice.

  “And it hadn’t been at a wedding,” said Janet.

  “And he’d worn knickers,” I said.

  “Jesus,” muttered the waitress, “the poor daughter.”

  After Janet and Janice left, Helen started to laugh, then ordered a large cream cake. “I am in the mood for something delicious,” she said.