EPISODE ONE-HUNDRED AND NINETEEN
Dave smacked his lips
contentedly and put his knife and fork together with a clatter.
That were the business, that were,’ he said, exaggerating his Yorkshire dialect.
‘There’s nowt like a traditional Sunday roast. Ta very much, Mrs. Fernhill.’
Mary’s mother shook a finger admonishingly.
‘Please! Janet!’
‘Janet.’
Mary, noticing Simon and Thomas’s bored expressions, said, ‘You’ve both done very well. And nanny gave you enormous portions too.’
Mary’s mother smirked. ‘Clean plates.
Jolly good, you two.’
‘Is it all right if they get down from the table?’ Mary asked her mother. ‘They can watch some cartoon videos they’ve
brought with them, as long as they don’t have the volume too loud.’
The children were confined to staying indoors, as their grandmother lived in a
sheltered accommodation flat. Nanny
tugged delicately at her recently permed hair and sat upright, giving herself a
regal air.
‘You watch the television if you want to.
Nanny’ll have a between courses puff.
You can switch it off when I serve dessert.’
Dave, who had always called it pudding, suppressed the urge to laugh,
especially as Mary’s mother said certain things with pursed lips which reminded
him of the wide mouth frog joke.
‘Thanks, Nanny,’ said Thomas, staring at the blue in his grandmother’s hair,
which always fascinated him.
‘Good boy,’ she replied.
Simon mumbled his thanks and they both went and sat on the floor near to the
television set and switched it on. Mary
started to clear the plates away.
‘Just leave them in the kitchen,’ said her mother. ‘It’ll give me something to do later.’ She turned to Dave. ‘You get bored on your
own.’
Dave nodded and grunted non-committally. Mary’s mother fetched a roll-your-own
cigarette kit and a tin of Old Holborn tobacco from the sideboard, then
returned to the table.
‘You’ve never smoked, have you?’ she said.
Dave, who thought this sounded like a criticism, replied, ‘It’s not one of my
vices.’
‘No, I’m sure it isn’t. How long have
you known Mary now?’
Dave frowned, trying to follow her train of thought.
‘Er, must be almost a year now.’
‘You’re much better for her than that filthy beast she was married to.’
Dave nodded seriously, his frown deepening.
He wondered just how much Mary had told her mother about the recent
events and being stalked by her ex husband.
Not much, he decided, by the way she spoke about him. Perhaps Mary didn’t want to worry her.
‘Can’t you get Mary a job in your pantomime this year? She’s a very good actress.’
Dave shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
‘I thought,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘she was a dancer.’
‘Oh, no. She’s been to drama school, you
know.’
‘Where?’
‘Hayward’s Heath. Not
one of the top London establishments, I know. But very good and highly thought of in Sussex. And Mary’s
played fairy in panto. She’s worked with
Bernie Clifton.’
Dave took a swig of Leibfraumilch.
‘The one I’m doing at Blackpool’s already cast, a long time ago, Janet.’
Janet produced an incredibly thin cigarette from her roller and lit up. Mary came back into the room.
‘I was telling Dave,’ said her mother, ‘about you career as an actress.’
Mary sighed deeply. ‘Some career. Mostly kicking my legs up in the back row of
the chorus.’
Her mother tapped the table with her index finger. ‘And
a few bits and pieces. If only you’d
stuck at it like Yolande Brewer.’
Dave saw Mary’s jaw tighten.
‘Yolande,’ Janet went on, ‘lived next door to us in Hayward’s Heath. She
went to Bright Lights, too. That’s the
drama school. Yolande did awfully well
for herself. Awfully well. Did a Rowntrees Fruit Gum advert, then there
was no looking back. She never
stopped. She was always on the box in
something or other. I wonder what ever
became of her?’
*
As soon as Mike walked into the kitchen, Claire fixed him with a frosty
glare. She was sitting at the table
reading the Mail on Sunday. He tried to think of something to say, some
sort of greeting. Anything would be
better than the silence, which was widening the distance between them. He turned away from her unnerving stare and stood,
hands in pockets, looking out at the garden which was deteriorating
rapidly. The grass was overgrown and
weeds were taking over in the flower beds.
When Claire eventually spoke, her voice was a blistering triumph of the
self righteous.
‘At least I was here to say goodbye to Andy.’
‘He’s gone to Ireland then.’
‘You knew he was going?’
‘He told me.’
‘At least I was here for when he was leaving.
So where have you been?’
Knowing he had to face up to this discussion, he came and sat opposite her at
the table. ‘We need to talk.’
She didn’t say anything. Just stared at
him, waiting for him to continue.
Deliberately making him feel uncomfortable.
‘I’ve come back to fetch more of my things.
I’m moving out.’
She laughed humourlessly. ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this. We’re actually splitting up, breaking apart,
and for what?’
Something snapped in Mike. ‘I’ll tell
you for what,’ he shouted. ‘Your
depression I could tolerate. It was
something that couldn’t be helped. But
this ridiculous Ron Hubbard religion, and giving them money, that was the last
straw as far as I was concerned.’
Claire remained infuriatingly calm, raising her eyebrows at him. ‘Really?
And where is it you’re living now?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Are you staying somewhere on your own?’
Mike avoided her stare and shook his head slowly. ‘I’ve moved in with someone.’
‘Anyone I might know?’ Claire enquired sarcastically.
‘A client of mine who died some time ago.
His wife. I’ve moved in with
her.’
Claire frowned as she worked it out, then her lips became taut and her nostrils
flared. ‘Not that woman who now runs a
wine bar.’
Mike nodded slowly.
‘I knew as soon as we walked into that wine bar that night that something was
going on between you two.’
Mike stared into Claire’s eyes as he spoke.
‘There was nothing going on then.
I promise you. Okay, I admit, I
always fancied her, even when Gary was alive. But
nothing happened between us. Not until
you started giving our money away to those lunatics. That’s when I asked her out to dinner. And that’s when I realised I’d fallen for
her.’
He held her look, inwardly congratulating himself on the brilliant performance
he was giving. She seemed to back down
suddenly, looked at the newspaper and turned over a page. When she eventually spoke, the sudden gear
change took him by surprise.
‘We’re a one car family. How on earth am
I going to manage without a car?’
‘That’s okay. You can have it. It’s all yours.’
She looked up from the paper. ‘And what
about your work?’
He shrugged. Then her mouth opened as
the truth dawned on her.
‘You’ve been done, haven’t you? After
all these years of drinking and driving - finally you’ve been caught.’
He noticed the slight expression of triumph flitting across her face. He decided it was time to make a move, slid
his chair back from the table and stood up.
‘I’ll go and get my things. And I’ll
need to order a taxi.’
‘Oh, Mike,’ she said, sighing deeply.
‘What are you going to do for work?’
He shrugged again and sidled out of the kitchen.
*
Following an awkward silence, Dave asked, ‘Since when have you rolled your own
cigarettes, Janet?’
She hesitated before answering. ‘Well,
I’ve always enjoyed a roll-up at home, but when Mary’s father was alive, he
liked me to smoke ready made cigarettes.
He thought it was more feminine.’
‘Was he a smoker?’
‘Oh yes. Sometimes as a special treat
he’d bring home Black Russian cigarettes.
Or coloured cocktail ones. He
thought they were elegant. You don’t see
them anymore.’
Janet gazed wistfully at a cloud of blue smoke drifting towards the ceiling.
‘How long is it since your husband passed away, Janet?’
As soon as he had said it, Dave felt the frozen silence, like a coffin lid
closing. Mary deliberately avoided
catching his eye.
‘It’s nearly twenty years to the day,’ Janet muttered hastily.
Ignoring the warning signs – perhaps it was perversity on his part – Dave
decided he wouldn’t let the subject drop.
‘He must have died quite young. What did
he die of?’
Janet rose quickly. ‘Now then,’ she said
with forced brightness, ‘I’ve got some lovely treacle tart in the oven. Who’s ready for dessert?’
IN EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY
Pran’s problems become public.