Serve Cool (5 page)

Mother was still droning on, slowly drilling a painful hole in my eardrum.

‘Are we not good enough for you now, dahling, or are you taking drugs?’

Bloody hell, here goes. I quickly resolved not to try and explain how I had lost my job. Any attempt at a reasonable discussion would be futile.

At that point Mrs Diasio burst through the front door. She glared at me with a look of disdain. Her gaze moved slowly over my choice of day-wear, down to my furry cat slippers,
and back up to my luminous orange hair. She raised her Roman nose and scurried past, muttering in Italian. I figured it wasn’t an attempt at friendly conversation.

‘Stupid old hag,’ I said, perhaps a little too loudly as she disappeared into the lift.

As my ear began to turn numb, I gave up on politeness and patience and yelled, ‘Mother, will you shut up!’

Mother Summer came up for air. Suddenly I had the silence I had wanted but I didn’t know what I was going to say. I tended to beat around the bush at the best of times, but now my mouth was beginning to dry up. How could I tell my parents that I had thrown away the only thing that had ever caused my mother to be slightly proud of me? However, I could feel my mum winding up for a second assault so I had no choice but to go for it. ‘I … um … I lost my job,’ I said quickly. A never-before-heard silence boomed from the other end of the line.

I cleared my throat. ‘Mum, did you
hear
me?’ I asked. ‘I lost my job.’

Again no response. I awaited the explosion and was surprised when I heard, ‘Oh petal, you poor, poor thing. How terrible.’

I decided that she must have misheard. My mother never gave me sympathy.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she stuttered. ‘Please, dahling, come and see Daddy and me. We’ll make it better.’

‘I can’t believe you’re taking it like this.’ I smiled and relaxed a little. ‘I thought you’d go mental when I told you.’

‘Of course not, Jennifer. It’s simply a disaster for you.’

Perhaps I had underestimated her. ‘Thank you,’ I replied.
‘It’s comforting to know you’re there for me, even though I got fired.’

‘
What?
’ The yell resounded through my ears. ‘Fired!’ she screamed. ‘What the
hell
for?’

Mother never said ‘hell’. This was bad.

‘Jennifer?’ she enquired loudly. ‘Speak to me you stupid girl.’

‘Mum, what’s wrong?’ In the background I could hear my father trying to take control of the situation. Fat chance of that.

‘I thought you were made redundant, you silly idiot.’

Oh
.

‘The Summer family does
not
get
fired
! What happened?’

Shopping in my pyjamas was becoming a more attractive option by the minute. My mother’s voice, sounding strangely high-pitched and strangled, was ringing in my ears.

‘I despair of you, Jennifer. When will you ever grow up? Why can’t you be like your sister?’

‘STUFF bloody Susie,’ I yelled, ignoring the sounds of shock from my mother. ‘I’m not
her,
OK? I’m me, Jennifer, and I’m not that bad, you know’ My brain was picking up speed. ‘
Yes
, I’m single,
yes,
I’ve been fired, but I’m
not
a bad person, Mother. There’s only one person on this line who needs to wake up, and it’s not me.’

I slammed the phone down and felt my body shake with fury and shock. Bloody woman. My father was great but his support was always in the background, overshadowed by the strange ways of my mother. I suddenly felt a wave of hopelessness sweep over me. Even my own family thought I was a failure. Through the haze of self-pity I heard a cough
and turned to see the lift doors closing, with Mrs Diasio inside. I was puzzled as I thought she had already gone. It seemed Mrs Diasio had added eavesdropping to her list of neighbourly traits. Tired and depressed, I began to trudge my fluffy cats up the stairs.

I was woken at about 8:00 p.m. by a sharp rap on the door. The day had already felt like an eternity and it still wasn’t over. I groaned from the effort of getting up from the sofa and tramped to the door. I was surprised to see my landlord, a lanky, greasy excuse for a man, marching up and down the corridor impatiently. Mr Brown (an apt name for a man whose wardrobe consisted only of brown jumpers, brown slacks and the odd tank-top) only ever appeared on the scene to moan, collect money or ‘romance’ my neighbour. I presumed the former was today’s mission.

‘Mr Brown,’ I said as politely as possible, ‘how can I help you?’

‘Miss Summer.’ I shivered at the sound of his gruff voice. This man perspired sleaze. ‘I dinny wanna pry, like’ (a likely story) ‘but I been hearing stuff about ya.’

‘
Stuff?
Any stuff in particular?’

‘Aye, like I heard you’re wurkin’ for the DSS now, lass.’

‘Um, I’m not sure I …’

‘Worra said was, yur signin’ on like.’

My brain clocked in for its evening shift and I began to understand his bush-beating drivel.

‘Well, news travels fast in this block, doesn’t it?’ My thoughts instinctively turned to Demon Diasio.

‘So I’m reet then am I?’ he continued.

‘Yes, Mr Brown, you’re right. I lost my job.’

‘Well lass, I’m sorry.’

I was momentarily taken aback. My brown-jumpered rent collector was one of the last people I expected sympathy from but I figured that my choice of shoulders to cry on was rapidly dwindling, so I’d take anything I could get.

I smiled. ‘Well thanks, Mr Brown, I really appreciate it. I was feeling a bit down, actually, so it really helps to —’

‘Na lass,’ he interrupted, ‘that isny what I meant. I mean I’m sorry but I’ve come to tell’t you that ye’ve gorra gan.’

‘Gan, I mean
go,
where?’

‘Gan, like leave. These flats are for professional business people like and I cannat risk you not payin’ yer rent.’

‘But I’ll pay. I’ve only been out of work
one
day. I’ve got rights.’

‘Na pet. I mek yer rights and I can tek them away. That’s how it works, see. I can dae what I bleedin’ well like and I couldny give a monkeys what the bloody law says.’

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. First Jack, then my job. Surely I wasn’t going to lose my flat as well. I considered that it could be a practical joke but realised that Mr Brown wouldn’t know humour if it jumped up and bit him on the tank-top. I tried for the pathetic, helpless look.

‘
Please
Mr Brown,’ I pleaded. ‘I’m going to get another job. Just give me a few days. I’ll even give you an advance on my rent.’ It would mean a painful trip to the bank manager or, failing that, my dad, but anything was preferable to being homeless.

He stared at me then smiled, revealing a set of rotten
yellow chipped teeth. My stomach churned but I held his eye. He moved closer, enveloping me in
eau de
BO.

‘Well maybe there is a way like,’ he said strangely.

‘Please,
anything,
’ I replied, holding my breath.

‘Well that nice Italian woman …’

‘
Nice
…? Oh, Mrs Diasio?’

‘Aye. She tell’t us that you havny got any men around much. Jest mentioned it like.’

Oh I bet she did, the nosy old bint. I was beginning to lose track of the conversation.

‘And well ye kna if yer desperate and alone like …’ He winked and exposed his teeth again. He obviously thought they were one of his strong points, well actually, no others sprang to mind. ‘… I was thinkin’ maybe we could come to some … uh … some
arrangement,
pet.’

Arrangement? Surely he didn’t mean …? My stomach threatened to empty its contents over Mr Brown’s slacks as he moved even closer and clasped his hands on my waist.

‘Get off me, you freak,’ I yelled, pushing his hands away and taking a step back.

‘Howay now,’ he shouted, ‘dain’t be gettin’ like that, pet.’

‘I’m not your pet and I can’t believe you’d even suggest such a thing! Wouldn’t a weasel be more your type, you perverted little rat?’

‘Tek it easy, woman. You better watch what you’re sayin’ like.’

‘Just because that oversexed Italian tart is desperate enough to touch you, that definitely does not mean you’re irresistible.’

Any form of diplomacy escaped me as I continued to hurl
abuse at my landlord. Of course, he did deserve it but subtlety would probably have been a more appropriate way of keeping a roof, this roof in particular, over my head. Nevertheless, I ploughed on, driven by an urge to put the male species in their place. (‘I’d rather snog Roy Hattersley than get within a mile of you … You’re about as attractive as a lizard with herpes … The day you and I get together will be the day Satan goes snowboarding …’ That sort of thing.) I stopped only when a brown-jumpered arm was raised in the air, revealing a tightly clenched fist. I thought back to third year self-defence class but all I could remember was to spray your attacker with an aerosol or stab them with a nail file, neither of which I kept in my pyjamas. I closed my eyes and waited for the punch.

‘Ach yer not worth it, ya sad auld tramp,’ I heard him say. ‘I can see why you’re not gettin’ any.’

Bastard.

‘GET OUT OF MY FLAT,’ I yelled. ‘I’ve had it with men like you.’

He started to laugh. ‘Na lass, you can get oot o’ my flat, reet now. Yer lease has expired.’

No, no, no. That wasn’t meant to happen. Great negotiation skills, Jennifer. I wanted to plead, I wanted to beg, but I was too enraged. The events of the previous days had culminated in unadulterated female fury.

‘With pleasure,’ I yelled. ‘I’d rather live in a cell in Alcatraz than pay rent to you.’

‘Aye, well, ask if they’ve got a padded one. Give me yer key before you leave.’ He turned on his slip-on leather-look heels and left me standing at the door dumbfounded.

‘Shit, shit, shit.’ I stamped my foot and hit my head on the door frame. ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.’

Across the corridor a door opened. I looked up to see a bemused Mrs Diasio looking my way. She waved, then laughed. ‘
Arrivaderci,
’ she chuckled and slammed the door.

Chapter Five

8th January, 12:30 p.m.

‘Gis a packet o’ tabs an’ two pickle’t eggs,’ he shouted. He threw his empty chicken pie wrapper at me, I gathered as a sign of affection.

‘Aye, an’ a pint of Exhibition,’ yelled his missus, from the opposite end of the bar. This sparked a heated response.

‘Howay woman, get yer own chuffin’ pint. I’m not ganna pay fer you to get fatter than you are.’

‘Piss off, ya bleedin’ scruff.’

‘I’ll smack ya if yer startin’ on us like.’

I turned away and busied myself with fishing the putrid-smelling eggs out of the jar that stood on the counter behind the bar. Another typical lunchtime shift at the Scrap Inn, especially when Denise and Derek were present. I glanced at the clock above me – 12:32 p.m. Maz probably wouldn’t be back for at least another two hours. I was starting to feel tense. This was my first time going solo behind the bar and
I would admit to being absolutely terrified. Maz had finally decided to go for her first talk-show host audition and, in a moment of madness, I had agreed to do the shift alone. ‘Yeah, sure Maz, no problem. It’ll be good experience for me.’ Good experience, my arse. Having my teeth forcibly extracted without anaesthetic would have been more enjoyable. My original bravado was starting to dwindle.

The eggs and cigarettes had just changed hands when the pub door burst open, smashed against the wall and sent the recently hung ‘No smoking section’ sign crashing to the floor.

‘F’kin’ na smokin’ section. What a load o’ shite,’ shouted ‘Auld Vinny’, the pub’s eldest regular, as he stumbled through the door and kicked the sign across the floor. He tripped down the stairs and wobbled towards me, as I hurriedly uncapped his bottle of ‘broon’. Auld Vinny was not one to be kept waiting.

‘What f’kin’ time d’ya call this to open eh?’ he yelled, waggling an ancient finger vaguely in my direction. ‘I was ootside at eleven o’clock and ya wasny open. I cannot believe it disny open at eleven. I’m ganna call the f’kin’ brewery, man!’

I decided against explaining the intricacies of licensing laws and instead smiled inanely as my third customer attempted to climb onto the bar stool which was nailed to the floor. Auld Vinny definitely had an individual style. He wore a dirty brown jacket, black trousers tied with string, white socks, and lime-green deck shoes. His house key hung on a string around his thick neck. As always, the ensemble was finished off with a neon orange cap bearing the logo
‘The Ultimate International Sex Machine’.

‘A bottle o’ broon an’ a pint of arsenic,’ yelled Vinny. ‘I’m sick as shite.’

‘Here you go, Vinny.’ I put the bottle in front of him and watched his bunch of ring-clad, tattooed fingers shakily clasp the bottle.

‘Chuffin’ hell,’ Auld Vinny exclaimed, spitting a mouthful of beer all over the bar, ‘what the hell d’ya call that, man?’

‘Umm,’ I stuttered. ‘Umm.’ I pointed nervously at the label.

Vinny lifted the bottle and held it close to my face. ‘Serve cool,’ he said seriously. ‘That’s what it says on the bleedin’ label woman.
Cool,
not friggin’ arctic.’

‘S … sorry,’ I began, grabbing another bottle that hadn’t come straight from the store room. ‘S … sorry.’

‘Aye, well.’ Vinny eyed me cagily. ‘Aye, well you’ll learn.’

I tried to smile pleasantly while I racked my brain for some form of conversation.

I can’t do it,
my brain stressed.
I can’t relate to these people.

‘What’r ya smilin’ like a bleedin’ loony for, woman?’ Auld Vinny finished his half-bottle swig and stared sternly at me with his dark grey eyes.

‘There isny much ta friggin’ smile aboot today, woman, I tell’t ya.’

I smiled meekly then forced a frown in a vain attempt to fit in. Fearing for my health, I looked away and hurriedly began cleaning the bar for the fourth time that morning.

From the outside looking in, this job had always seemed so easy. Pull a few pints, say, ‘What can I get you, darlin’?’ and show a bit of cleavage. How hard could it possibly be?
Harder than eating rice with chopsticks, I had since discovered. I couldn’t even serve a decent beer from a ready to drink bottle.

Maz was so good at the banter. She gave as good as she got, if not better. I, on the other hand, always seemed to be stuck for words so I spent most of the day smiling like a mental patient (post-lobotomy) and making agreeable noises. The regulars were all hardened Geordies, fully qualified in alcoholism, fighting or swearing or even a mixture of all three. I was assured by Maz they were harmless yet I still feared for my life at least a dozen times a day, usually from the women. Maz had promised me that I would find it easier and more enjoyable given time, but I wasn’t convinced.

Mind you, time was the one thing I definitely did have. Over the previous five days, I had received my P45, said goodbye to any hopes of a job in the legal profession, been unceremoniously removed from my flat, and moved in with Maz. It was a strange role reversal, having to rely financially as well as emotionally on my best friend. I had convinced myself it was temporary but as the days had passed I had realised that Maz’s offer of some shifts in the Scrap Inn was my only option. There was no space for pride in the equation.

‘Are ya listenin’ ta me, wuman?’ yelled Auld Vinny. I stopped cleaning and quickly uncapped another bottle of Brown Ale.

‘What was that you were saying, Vinny?’ I asked shakily.

‘Jesus. Does naybody listen these days? I said me father went doonstairs like.’

‘Downstairs? What for?’

‘Aye. Doonstairs, ye kna. He cannat have gan to heaven the auld bastard.’

Auld Vinny was definitely one for random conversation. If one could do a degree in irrelevant banter this guy would have a PhD.

‘Auld bastard I tell’t ya me father,’ he continued. ‘I was happy as piggin’ shite when I see him get dead. Happy as chuffin’ Larry when the auld twat died. I tell’t ya there al’ the same, fathers.’

‘Actually, my dad’s really nice. I —’

‘Auld git. I’d say hello to the blowk and I’d be on the deck, man. Wham, just fer lookin’ at him like.’

‘Oh dear.’ (Zero out of ten for inspirational responses.)

Vinny continued. ‘And mention God in the house, man. He’d deck ya. “Never mention that bloody word in this house again.” Floor ya, he would, the auld git.’

He paused, took a swig of beer and redeemed the half-eaten meat pie that had been festering among the fluff in his jacket pocket. I looked anywhere but directly at him, to avoid the open-mouthed chewing display. It was like watching a trifle in a washing machine. When the horse-like chewing noise became less deafening, I made a further attempt at conversation.

‘So how are you feeling today, Vinny?’ (OK, so it was boring but it was a start.)

‘Terrible man,’ he growled. ‘I went to the bloody doctor this mornin’ like before I came to the pub which was fuc —’

‘Not open yet.’

‘Aye. A bloody wuman the doctor was that I saw. Anyway,
I meybe auld but I’m not sexualist ye kna. I divny give a monkey’s what the bastard is as long as they kna what to do when they get us like.’

I nodded enthusiastically as his eyes held mine.

‘D’ye kna what she tell’t us?’

‘No Vinny, what was that?’ I cleared my throat and tried to relax.

‘She says, “Vinny, you’re as fit as a lion.” I says, “Piss off man, woman, man, I’m fit to drop.” ’

I laughed nervously.

‘Straits that’s what I tell’t her. Aye they’re ganna make me suffer before I go I tell’t ya.’

At this point, Denise and Derek finished another argument and decided to join us. We made a peculiar foursome. Auld Vinny, a wrinkled old seaman, with skin like a crocodile handbag, Denise, whose ‘wide load’ frame was squeezed into stilettos and ski-pants, Derek her husband, whose idea of heaven was three pints before breakfast and daily re-runs of
Auf Wiedersehen Pet,
and me. I listened to them talking, tried to nod and laugh at appropriate moments, but rarely added anything myself. I felt as out of place as an over-sized tunic in Anneka Rice’s wardrobe, totally surrounded by jumpsuits and unable to relate to a single one of them. I was sure they were hardly aware of my existence, unlike Maz who held court when she was on duty. The whole scenario was light years away from my none-too-distant previous life and I wasn’t sure how to adjust. I must admit, though, I was beginning to find them strangely entertaining.

‘How much d’ya get a week, Vinny?’ asked Derek through a mouthful of pork scratchings. The conversation
had somehow jumped from coronary thrombosis, haemorrhoids and bed baths to economics.

‘Aye Vinny tell’t us how much ya get,’ shouted Denise, hitching up her knickers above her ski pants.

‘I get sixty-seven pount a week al done.’

‘Howay man, Vinny,’ Denise interjected, ‘you should be well off, man. I get aboot thirty-five pount a week and that’s my lot. You should be livin’ in a f’kin’ palace, Vinny man.’

Vinny did reply but my attention was diverted by the sound of ‘The Shoe’ pulling up outside. ‘Thank you God.’ Maz was back. I glanced at the clock – 1:30 p.m. I heard the back gate open and close and waited with bated breath for my friend to appear. I had survived.

‘Where the
bollocks
have you been?’ Vinny shouted as Maz strode up to the bar from the back entrance. ‘Left us with a bleedin’ southerner you did.’

‘Howay y’auld git. She’s my best friend so shut yer flippin’ mouth.’ She laughed loudly and knocked Vinny’s hat off.

Everyone laughed and I felt a twinge of jealousy.
Like me too. Like me too.
I almost started to sulk but then I remembered Maz’s audition. As she gabbled away with her regulars, keeping them in hysterics, I thought I detected a slight watery look in her eyes but I couldn’t be certain. Anyway, Maz never cried, it wasn’t her style. She was ‘tough as auld boots’, as she herself often said.

‘Aye Vinny man. It’s yer birthday tomorra, isn’t it?’ said Maz as she opened a bag of scampi fries and shoveled half of them into her mouth.

‘Aye it is, bloody birthdays. I’m sick of the swine, they shouldn’t be allowed.’

‘Well, Jen here and I thought we’d give you a party.’ (First I’d heard but I nodded agreeably.)

‘Jesus chuffin’ Christ. I hope I don’t even
see
me bloody birthday me! They’re a waste of bloody time. I’ve never had one good day in me life so what would I wanna gan celebratin’ aboot eh?’

‘Oh come on, Vinny.’ We all joined in, sensing Maz’s enjoyment.

‘Piss off. I divny wanna birthday.’

Maz grinned, ‘Well we’re havin’ a party anyhow, you miserable sod, and if you dain’t come we’ll be celebratin’ without you. So pack it in and get another pint doon yer neck.’

The next couple of hours continued along the same lines. It was only when our regulars left for a short break before their night shift that I finally had a chance to talk to my friend.

‘So come on then,’ I said, jumping up to sit on the bar. ‘How did it go?’

‘How d’you think?’

‘Well I don’t know. Did you get an audition? Tell me.’

‘Aye I got an audition alreet.’

‘Great!’

‘Na, shite. I got to say aboot three sentences before they interrupted us.’

‘What did they say?’

‘Exactly? Well the blowk in charge of production said nothin’ but his little gobshite of an assistant had plenty to say.’

Maz broke into her best posh voice: ‘“I’m awfully sorry, sweetie, but that will be all for now. You aren’t raylay what we’re looking for.” ’

‘Well what were they looking for?’ I asked. I could tell that Maz was upset.

She said, ‘Um, you know, somebody a little less …
regional
.’

‘
Regional?
What the hell is
that
supposed to mean?’

‘Exactly, bleedin’ cheek. In other words, I was too flippin’ Geordie to host the show. Well what do they expect if they do the bloody auditions in Newcastle? It’s a load of crap man!’

‘That can’t be it. They can’t possibly use that as a justification. What’s wrong with having an accent? Not every person on TV has to sound like Sue Lawley for us to understand them. That’s
shocking
.’

‘Aye. Well I went canny mental but she didn’t budge. She said I didn’t have the right
experience.
’

‘But you know those shows inside out.’

‘I kna. I tell’t her that. Jen, I know I’d be good at it. I’ve been through so many of the sorts of things that people need to discuss on these shows. Except, maybe, transgendering, sleeping with aliens or reincarnation, but anyhow, I’d be good. I know I would.’

I could see how hurt Maz was feeling. She’d opened herself up to rejection and hated feeling the pride that had taken so long to build up be bashed away by a mid-twenties media bitch with little grasp of everyday life in the real world.

‘Don’t worry, mate.’ I put my arm around Maz’s shoulders and gave her a wink. ‘I like you common.’

She smiled and punched me in the arm.

‘F’kin’ southerner,’ she laughed.

We hugged then sat in silence for a minute. Maz gazed up at the framed autographed photo of Ricki Lake that hung above the last orders bell. She had sent off for it from the official fan club and it hung as a shrine to her ultimate goal.

Finally I broke the silence. ‘So who did they pick in the end?’

‘Ah some auld tramp who looked like Judith bloody Chalmers on steroids. Apparently she had the experience but I reckon it was the accent she had. She spoke as if she had a gobful of royal plums. “Aybsobloodylootly Bloomin’ Marvellous Actuarly.” She was a reet cow, looked down her nose at us the whole time. Bitch.’

I laughed at Maz’s Queen Mum voice and cracked open two beers. A medicinal Bud (or several) was required.

‘I might as well give up,’ Maz sighed after a couple of mouthfuls.

‘Shut up,’ I replied. ‘You don’t give up. What was it you told me last week? “If you give up on your ambition you aren’t going to go anywhere but down.” Well, you’re not going down and you’re certainly not going to go through life like a sad cow wondering “What if?” I’ll see to that, so pack it in and get that beer down your neck!’