Welcome to My World (16 page)

Rosemary patted his ginger and white head. ‘Ah, yes, I seem to have found my calling in life – at least as far as Ron’s concerned. Now, look in that tin, won’t you? I brought supplies!’

Harri pushed the tray onto the least lumpy side of the coffee table, before opening the large tin and squealing with delight. ‘Your famous Lemon Drizzle Cake – with white chocolate buttons on the top! Oh, Auntie Rosemary, you’re such a star!’

‘I’m glad you approve, darling. Now, go and get a knife and some plates and then we can get started.’

‘Get started on what?’

Rosemary smiled. ‘You didn’t think I’d let you do this all on your own, did you? Perish the thought, sweetheart! If you’re going to spend your whole weekend shifting through these –’ she paused to look at one of the crumpled pages in her hand – ‘
dreadfully
constructed letters, then you’ll need some company. That’s if you don’t mind?’

Harri smiled as relief flooded through her weary frame. ‘I don’t mind at all.’

The selection of replies, it had to be said, improved in ingenuity as Harri and Rosemary progressed through the first sack. One of Rosemary’s personal favourites was one from a lady now known affectionately as the Cat Lady.

‘I don’t know what’s worse – Monty the randy tom or Mrs Snuffles snuggling up to your sweaty unmentionables,’ she laughed.

Harri was particularly impressed by a sender she named the Job Application Lady.

Alex

Re:
Juste Moi
feature

Having seen the ‘Free to a Good Home’ article in
Juste Moi
magazine (Issue 105, page 46), I am writing to apply for consideration.

Further to my CV (enclosed), please consider the following additional information in support of my application:

What I can offer:

• Loyalty
  
• Financial independence – I run my own successful PR consultancy
  
• Considerable circle of friends – many with connections
  
• Acceptance of partner’s flaws
  
• Conciliatory nature
  
• Excellent time management
  
• Sense of humour and intelligence
  

My expectations:

• A partner who meets my required lifestyle demands
  
• A non-confrontational nature
  
• Faithfulness – I cannot stress this enough
  
• A willingness to put my needs first whenever possible
  
• An appreciation of fine wines would be viewed as a considerable benefit . . .
  

‘I’ve never thought of dating as being like applying for a job before,’ Rosemary said.

Harri smiled. ‘Perhaps this is where Alex has been going wrong. He should just post up a card at the Job Centre and collect CVs instead. Much more civilised than all that “having to meet people” rigmarole.’

‘It would certainly be better than you having to sort through this bilge. Honestly, most of these replies are written in that awful text-speak. Don’t they teach girls correct English grammar these days?’

‘Apparently not. Blimey, do you realise we’ve cleared one sack already?’

Auntie Rosemary frowned. ‘Are you sure that one’s empty?’

Harri upturned the sack and shook it. A single fuchsia-pink envelope fluttered out and landed on the wool rug at her feet, closely followed by a strong waft of musky perfume, which made both Harri and her aunt balk as the scent snatched the breath from the back of their throats. It was the kind of perfume that ladies of a certain age love giving as Christmas presents to their unsuspecting great-nieces. Even Ron Howard, who was usually able to withstand the most strenuous efforts to evict him from his chosen warm spot, jumped up in horror from Auntie Rosemary’s lap, scampering out of the living room and up the stairs.

‘What, in the name of all that’s gracious, is
that
?’

Harri bent down and picked up the offending item by one corner. ‘I have a funny feeling that this one might be destined for the Not Likelies.’

Rosemary pulled a face and stood up. ‘I think it might be destined for the bin. The
outside
bin. What a terrible smell! I’m going to the kitchen for some fresh air. Coffee?’

‘Love one.’ Harri surveyed the pink envelope with its large, loopy handwriting and couldn’t help but be intrigued. Taking a deep breath, she ripped open the envelope and took out the equally strong-scented and vivid-hued letter.

A wry grin spreading across her face, Harri looked at the photo, which was fastened to the letter with a silver, sparkly paper clip, and guffawed so loudly that Auntie Rosemary appeared in the doorway. The thought of how horrified Alex would be when faced with this orange-tinged, platinum-blonde-haired plastic Jordan wannabe made tears roll down her cheeks.

One thing Alex was always more than happy to rant about was what he called ‘plastic salon junkies’. ‘Why in the world would any sane male choose to date a fake, plastic stick insect with more silicone than skin, who is more orange than an Oompa Loompa? You can’t have any kind of meaningful interchange with someone who can’t move their face. Honestly, you’d be better off dating a Barbie doll – at least you can chuck her in a cupboard when you get bored of her . . .’

Harri’s sides were aching as she struggled to catch her breath. ‘Alex and the fantastic plastic Chelsea – now
there’s
a match I’d like to see.’

‘Harriet Langton, stop being so cruel. You’re doing this to
help
your friend, remember?’

‘I know, I know, I’m just joking, Auntie Ro. Look, I’m dumping Chelsea on the Not Likely pile.’

‘Good, well, make sure you dump her right at the bottom of that pile, please. I don’t think my poor nostrils can take much more of that dreadful stench.’

From the beginning, Harri never imagined that trawling through Alex’s fan mail would be fun; yet as the hours passed, she found herself relishing the unexpected time spent with her aunt. As they made steady progress through the second sack and headed towards the third, she was filled with a comforting sense of peace and belonging that she hadn’t experienced for such a long time. Her mind drifted back to another living room, twenty years before, where the laughter warming its walls was that of her parents, long before cancer appeared.

Dad was a natural comedian – a serial practical joker and purveyor of an arsenal of devastatingly funny one-liners – and all sources of hilarity in the Langton household could be traced back to him. Mum, on the other hand, was the straight-woman in the outfit: ‘The Ernie to my Eric, the Corbett to my Barker,’ Dad used to say. Whilst her dad’s witticisms would reduce everyone within earshot to giggling wrecks, Harri’s mum’s face remained unmoved – which made the joke even funnier. Occasionally, she would crack, grabbing her husband and kissing the bald patch on the top of his head as he wrapped his arms around her. ‘I love you, you nutter!’

When someone you love dies, the things you miss are often surprising. In Harri’s most private moments, her parents’ laughter was the one sound she longed to hear again; memories of the silliest conversations would cause sharp slivers of pain to stab at her heart. One of the most memorable was a running joke that started whilst driving home from a Cornish summer holiday in Looe. Dad had decided to take a detour through Bodmin, but they ended up stuck behind a bin lorry driving through the narrow high street and because cars were double-parked along the length of the road, they were forced to stop every time a large, gruff-faced bin man jumped out to throw rubbish sacks into the wagon’s waiting jaws.

As usual, Dad started it. ‘We’re stuck behind a bin lorry in Bodmin.’

Mum smiled. ‘We’re stuck behind a bin lorry with a big bin man in Bodmin.’

‘We’re stuck behind a bin lorry, with a big burly bin man in Bodmin.’

Dad started to giggle. It never ceased to amaze Harri how such a tiny, elfin sound could come out of such a tall, broad-shouldered man like her dad. ‘We’re stuck behind a bin lorry, with a big, burly bin man with a big, black, bin bag in Bodmin . . .’

And so it continued for the next hour. By the time they arrived at Grandma and Grandpa Langton’s cottage on the edge of Dartmoor, the three of them were helpless with laughter. Dad practically fell out of the car, Harri emerged clutching her sides and Mum had lost every last vestige of her famous composure. The look of complete confusion on Grandma Langton’s face at the sight of her guffawing, gasping family is something Harri would never forget.

Now, sitting next to her aunt, Harri felt a glimmer of that feeling again: safety, familiarity, humour. A bittersweet shiver ran through her.

Auntie Rosemary turned to look at her. ‘Are you all right?’ Harri swallowed the lump in her throat and smiled back. ‘I’m fine.’

By eight o’clock that evening, only half a sack remained. Harri had caught her aunt surreptitiously glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece several times during the past hour and decided to make the decision for her.

‘Hey, it’s late. I’d better let you go.’

Rosemary made a valiant effort to hide her relief. ‘But you still have some left to sort through. I can’t just leave you.’

‘Yes, you can. Look, you’ve been an amazing help and I really, really appreciate everything you’ve done. But you need a weekend too and I’m more than capable of dealing with these.’

‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’

Harri wrapped her arms around her aunt. ‘Completely sure. Thank you so much – it’s been really lovely to spend the day with you.’

‘It’s been fun, hasn’t it?’ Rosemary’s cheeks flushed and she reached up to cup Harri’s face with both hands. ‘No, more than that, it’s been
wonderful
. I don’t get the chance to spend Saturday afternoons with my own little girl now she’s so far away.’

‘You miss Rosie a lot, don’t you?’ ‘Yes, very much so. Even though it’s been seven years since she left for America. So it’s lovely to spend time with my niece.’

‘Aw, thanks, Auntie Ro. It’s been ages since I had a family day too. Mum and I didn’t get many days like this.’

Tears sparkled at the corners of Auntie Rosemary’s dark eyes. ‘Niamh would have been so very proud of you, my darling. You remind me of her more and more, you know.’

They walked slowly to the front door and Auntie Rosemary stepped out onto the porch step, then turned back. ‘Just promise me that you won’t waste a single day, Harriet. For your mother. For me?’

Harri smiled. ‘I’ll try not to.’ She watched her aunt leave and then closed the door. As if by magic, Ron Howard appeared at her feet and started to rub around her ankles, purring lovingly. ‘Creep,’ she smiled down at him. ‘You only love me because I feed you.’

By ten p.m., the lack of sleep was beginning to take its toll. Harri’s eye sockets ached and her stomach felt like someone had placed a heavy weight inside it. She filed the last letter in the Possible pile and sank back into the sofa as Ron Howard rolled on his back, waiting to be tickled. ‘That’s me done, Ron.’ She ruffled the soft white fur on his belly as she looked at the completed piles of letters on the coffee table. To her surprise, the Contenders pile was looking quite healthy – at least thirty letters had made the grade. Leaning forward, she took the top letter and blinked a couple of times to focus her weary eyes on its contents.