The Armchair Bride (12 page)

Fifteen

A hastily arranged visit to see Mam meets with suspicion.

‘What’s gone wrong?’ she says before I can take off my coat. ‘Are you pregnant?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Drugs then, is it drugs?’

‘Hardly.’

‘Have you gone and taken out one of those pay day loans and lost everything?’

‘Can’t I just come home for a weekend.’

‘You can,’ she says tartly. ‘But you never usually do.’

I ignore the knowing looks she keeps throwing my way and make a pot of tea.

‘I had a load of holiday to take. I can’t afford to go anywhere nice, so this will have to do.’

‘Charming,’ she mutters. ‘Just because you’ve come home, I’m not doing anything fancy. It’s pie and mash for tea, go wash your hands.’

The idea of pie and mash and of having someone tell me to wash my hands fills me with happiness. When the whole world seems to be going mad, Mam brings me back to earth. Standing in the bathroom with a bar of Imperial Leather and the sound of the kitchen radio in the background, I’m ten once more. And secure.

The last minute nature of my announcement meant a round of calling in favours and making wild promises to swap shifts.

Telling Andy I had to go for a dress fitting was a way of winning points in a silly argument, but the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. I’ve called Helen to catch up on gossip. She was thrilled.

As the train pulled away from Manchester, part of me considered never coming back. Andy was going away, Sharon has her own life. Everyone I know has someone. Except me. Full of misery and self pity, I switched on my iPod to find Andy had wiped my soundtrack to misery in favour of Kylie Minogue’s greatest hits. A smile surfaced and all was right with the world.

Until my phone rang.

‘Is this Lisa Doyle?’

I sort of knew the voice. The accent was familiar. Someone from home. Surely it couldn’t be ...

‘This is Ginny Baker, remember me?’

My heart pounded and my mouth went dry.

‘Well, clearly you do. Helen tells me you’re coming down for a fitting. That should be fun. Can’t wait to see if what you’ve put down on paper matches up.’

‘I didn’t think you’d be around.’

‘Helen and I are the best of friends these days.’

‘I see.’

‘Now about this hen party. Did you truly not receive my mail?’

‘I can’t remember seeing it.’

‘That would explain it.’ She waited a beat. ‘Though why on earth your computer would send mine a receipt to say you’d not only received, but read the message, is anyone’s guess.’

‘Helen
asked
me to organise it.’ I tried to keep my voice even.

‘Oh did she?’

‘Yes and I’ve done what she asked, so if you don’t like it ...’

I ran out of words. She could what? Go stuff her head up her arse?

‘Do go on, dear,’ Ginny mocked. ‘If I don’t like it, what can I do?’

‘All I was going to say is you don’t
have
to come.’

‘I’m sure Helen wouldn’t like to think that one of her dearest friends is being told she can’t come to her hen party.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘I know dear, but context can be a wonderful thing. See you soon.’

The line went dead. One simple call from someone who shouldn’t even matter any more left me wretched.

‘Penny for them,’ Mam says as I  push my dinner round the plate.

‘Do you think people can really ever change?’

‘Who in particular?’

‘Ginny Baker?’

She seems to think for a minute.

‘Pauline Baker’s daughter?’

I nod.

‘No,’ Mam says. ‘Some people are rotten all the way through.’

I want to ask what she means, but there’s a tap at the back door. It’s my big sister Sue with her dog. Bertie’s a mix of Labrador and English terrier. White except for one black ear and a patch over his left eye. His tail helicopters as he runs around the room, barking, leaving a trail of muddy paw prints.

‘I’ve just mopped,’ Mam cries as Bertie jams his head up her skirt, to take a long snuffly sniff.

‘I’ll clean up,’ Sue says and Mam gets to her feet.

‘I’m off upstairs for a wash before Panorama comes on. There’s Battenberg in the cupboard, help yourself, but make sure you leave me a slice for breakfast.’

‘You can’t have cake for breakfast,’ I say. ‘It’s full of sugar.’

Mam smiles and cups my face in her hand.

‘Sweetheart,’ she says. ‘I’m 72. If I want a slice of cake for my breakfast, I’ll fecking have one. No doctor or health visitor is going to tell me otherwise.’

At the kitchen door she stops.

‘Is Amy coming over tonight?’

Sue nods. ‘She said she will.’

‘I suppose she’s bringing
him
?’

‘Glen
is
her husband.’

Mam’s face changes. ‘Tell him to take his shoes off. I’ve just mopped.’

I wait until I hear the taps run upstairs before saying anything.

‘What was that all about? Has she fallen out with Glen or something?’

Sue looks embarrassed. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘It didn’t sound like nothing.’

She looks through the window. ‘Talk of the devil, here they are. Amy can tell you herself.’

Glen gathers me up in a big manly hug and tries to include Amy in the circle, but she shrugs out.

‘Where’s Mam?’ she says.

‘Having a wash,’ I say. ‘She said to tell you to take off your shoes.’

That’s when I notice Glen’s footwear. A pair of large court shoes, ivory with a golden bow.

‘They’re easy to drive in,’ Amy says quickly. ‘How about we go through to the good room and you can tell me all your news.’

She more or less shoves me down the hall.

‘Don’t mention Glen’s shoes to Mam,’ she says as she closes the door.

‘I wasn’t going to, I didn’t even ...’

‘It’s not what you think,’ she starts to say, but then stops. ‘Hang on, what
do
you think? What’s Mam been saying?’

‘Nothing. Sue said to ask
you
what’s been going on. Mam seems to have a bit of a downer on Glen though. What’s he done, forgotten to mow her lawn?’

‘It’s more than that.’

‘What then?’

Glen puts his head round the door. ‘Is everything OK in here?’

‘We’re fine,’ Amy snaps. ‘Go make tea.’

I wait for him to leave us before tackling Amy for facts.

‘What’s going on?’ I say.

‘Mam thinks he’s wearing them for charity.’

‘Wearing what?’

‘The shoes,’ Amy says. ‘She thinks it’s for some am-dram thing. I told her he was a huge fan of Robert de Niro and wanted to try being a method actor.’

‘And that’s all?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘It’s just that Mam seemed
really
pissed off about something.’

Amy shuffles awkwardly.

‘You know Mam,’ she says. ‘When did she ever need an excuse to fall out with someone.’

I nod. Amy’s right. Every one of us has been singled out for her wrath at some time. Usually without warning and almost always without reason.

When Glen reappears, he’s changed into old man slippers.

‘Where did you put those shoes?’ Amy looks anxious.

‘In a carrier bag under the stairs.’

‘I can’t have them in the house. Take them out to the car.’

‘It’s raining.’

So take an umbrella.’

‘Fine,’ he says and heads back to the hall. ‘Sue says to come back through to the kitchen for tea, you know you can’t have cups in the good room.’

Almost on cue, there’s a voice from upstairs.

‘Who’s got the light on in there without the curtains closed. I don’t want every Tom, Dick and Harry knowing what goes on in my house.’

We’re ordered out and any chance of interrogating Amy further will have to wait.

Sue pours tea and we gather round the old kitchen table.

‘Isn’t Lisa a site for sore eyes,’ she says with a beam that lights up every part of her face. ‘I’ve missed you so and I do worry about you being up there alone.’

‘I’m not alone,’ I say. ‘I share with Andy and Manchester is only a couple of hours away.’

‘You know I don’t travel well, Lisa, not since that time I slipped on the ice getting the milk in. I can’t sit in one position for more than half an hour.’

‘That was ten years ago,’ Sue says.

‘And all of a sudden my eldest is a medical expert,’ mam counters and Sue folds her arms, as if ready for a fight.

‘Doesn’t Lisa’s hair look nice,’ Amy says by way of distraction.

‘It’s still too short,’ Mam huffs. ‘I’ve always said.’

On any other night, I’d have taken offence and bitten back, but tonight it feels wonderful to be here with the people who love me the most.

‘It’s grand having the three of you together again,’ she says. ‘I’m not so sure tea is right for the occasion. There’s a bottle of brandy in the top cupboard behind the biscuit tin. Maybe one of you could reach it down.’

‘I’ll get it,’ Glen volunteers.

‘Yes,’ Mam mutters darkly. ‘I dare say you will.’

We raise glasses to remember Dad and my eyes prickle. It’s only Bertie nosily letting off that breaks the moment.

‘Christ, what has that dog eaten? Amy roars. ‘He smells like burning tyres.’

‘I’ve got him on a special diet,’ Sue says. ‘It’s supposed to reduce wind.’

‘You’d be better off buying him a fecking kite,’ Mam laughs and Bertie jumps up to bark and join in the fun.

‘Glen, go get another bottle from the off licence,’ Amy says. ‘And see if they have any orange juice. I’ve a mouth like Gandhi’s flip-flop.’

‘Right you are,’ he says and grabs his coat.

‘Mind you leave your driving shoes outside,’ she calls after him. ‘Mam’s just mopped.’

After he’s gone, Mam seems to relax. There’s certainly something going on, but it feels the wrong time to ask. Mam however turns her attention onto me.

‘Isn’t it time you thought of getting married,’ she says. ‘You’re 40 now, it’s a bit on the old side to be single. In my day they used to call women like you old maids.’

Everyone laughs.

‘I’m not seeing anyone right now,’ I say, then for some reason add, ‘But watch this space.’

Mam puts down her glass.

‘Thank you Jesus,’ she says and crosses herself. ‘We were all after thinking you’d die a spinster. Tell me all about him, love.’

‘I’d rather not go tempting fate,’ I say. ‘It might be nothing. It might all be in my head.’

‘Fate or not, it’s good that you’re thinking in the right way,’ Mam says. ‘Diana down the road was telling me the other day about her daughter Suzie. She only took an overdose because she was fed up of being alone.’

‘Shit, is she OK?’

‘They had to pump her stomach. She’s dating the anesthetist, so I suppose something good came of it.’

I take a deep breath.

‘Maybe I
won’t
be on my own for much longer.’

Why am I saying this?

I’m a modern independent woman. I don’t need a man to validate my existence.

Mam’s face is alight. Just as I’m about to crack and conjure up a tall dark stranger who has been admiring me from afar, Glen comes back in, his hands covered in oil.

‘Bloody car won’t start,’ he says. ‘I’ll have to ring the AA.’

Mam’s face turns to thunder.

‘Make sure you leave some money on the side if you’re after using my phone,’ she says and pours what’s left of the brandy into her glass.

‘Shall I take Bertie for a walk and see if I can get a bottle?’ Sue suggests.

‘Do what you like,’ Mam says. ‘At least one of my daughters has more sense than they were born with.’

Amy’s face grows tense. Something is going on. They’re all in on it, but I’m being cut out.

‘Lisa, what’s this young man’s name?’ Mam says pleasantly enough.

‘Brian,’ I say without thinking.

And with one word, I implicate my boss. From this day forth, I must make certain my family never meet him. Worse yet, some day soon I’d need to find a boyfriend called Brian or at the very least someone happy to be called Brian within earshot of Mam.

The thing that matters now is to avoid going into detail. Keep things vague. If they don’t have hair colour, eye colour and the like, I can hire an actor. If I tell them too much, I’ll limit my options.

And yet, details are coaxed with consummate ease. Mam mysteriously finds a second bottle of brandy and tops up my glass. By the time Sue gets back, I’m merrily regaling all with tales of how six foot tall, dark-haired, brown-eyed Brian has been in my life for years. How we’d always thought of each other as friends until something happened at the staff party that changed everything.

‘So he’s someone you work with?’ Mam says and I’m suddenly sober.

‘Will he be coming to the wedding?’ Sue asks.

‘Of course he will.’ Mam says. ‘And he can even stay here with us. He can sleep in Amy’s old room.’

The doorbell goes.

‘I’ll get it,’ I say more to escape than anything else.

I need time to think. Maybe Brian could have a terrible car accident. Not the real Brian of course, made-up Brian. The one they think is my boss. Oh heck, this is such a bloody mess.

I open the door to a tall, slim and smartly-dressed woman. She has her back to me, but when she turns around, I cry out.

‘Helen. Thank God you’re here.’

She gathers me in a hug.

‘Let me guess,’ she says. ‘Families. Your Mam has chewed your ear off about boyfriends and one or both of your sisters are getting slowly pissed and saying inappropriate things to egg her on.’

‘It’s sort of that,’ I say and step back to take her in.

‘My God, you’ve changed,’ I say.

The last photo she sent was two years back. That was when she went through some sort of late 30s crisis. A last-flush-of- youth punky phase, dyed her hair jet black and slathered on heavy eye shadow and bright red lipstick. About-to-be-married Helen  has lost a shed load of weight and let her dark brown, naturally curly hair grow, she’s also stopped toweling on the make-up.

‘You look fabulous,’ I say.

‘Combination of a crash diet, a brutally honest hairdresser and nerves.’

We hug again and two years of awkward distance melt away.

‘Mum’s getting some stuff out of the car,’ she says

I look over her shoulder and see someone messing around in the boot of a Ford Fiesta.

‘Come on in,’ I say take her coat.

Helen’s mother takes forever and has to ring the bell. I open it and jump back when the all-too-familiar hard-faced features of Ginny Baker greet me.

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost, dear,’ she says. ‘Shut your mouth, it isn’t a good look. People will think you’re missing a chromosome.’