A Tiny Bit Marvellous (24 page)

Oscar

Not every chap can claim a hero for a father, but, presently, I can. The Pater is, of course, rejecting all praise in his usual self-effacing manner. It requires a very fine nature, I think, to resist such overtures, especially when the plaudits emanate from such ordinarily sour gooses as one’s own silly daughter and selfish wifelet, who so rarely bother to notice one’s acts of honour. By all accounts – well, by his account, which was so strangulatedly wrought from him – he was more than a tiny bit marvellous in his defence of Droney Dora’s safety.

Why the daffy wretch insists on putting herself in the path of danger so very often is beyond my ken. I think it might be prudent for Luke and I to be more actively involved in her love life in future. I’m certain that any chap who had to pass through our proposed rigorous audition and interview process would be a far superior candidate to any she might stumble upon in cyberspace … Either that, or we could provide our services as chaperones, thereby weeding out and eliminating all unlikelies from the vantage point of companion and spy. Thus, the woeful flotsam and jetsam that is the bilious human soup of the internet shall be washed up on some far foreign shore, and be of no threat to my silly sibling.

Master Wilson and I are blessed with a curse. The curse of immaculate taste. We would, I’m sure, immediately identify all knaves or savages who might dare to come sniffing around her and we could speedily dispatch them with a sobering and sassy bon mot or two. Nothing trumps a chap’s audacity so much as a witty rejoinder. If one is as fresh and nimble-witted as one might dare to presume one is, then it is surely one’s duty to enter into a minty badinage of waggish banter as often as one possibly can. How else might one sharpen one’s esprit?

This is the fundamental difference between the Pater and myself. Where he might unleash his brawn, I might rather unshackle my biting drollery as my chosen weapon. I would have certainly ridiculed that odious predator right out of that park with a barrage of smart, rapid-fire japes. There’s many a slip twixt swing and quip. Whereas Papa always has to rely on and resort to his natural animal instincts, bless him.

I can’t reiterate strongly enough, though, that if one finds oneself compromised in such a manner, one is grateful for the sheer physical courage of a simple shallow chap such as he. For that noble reason, I am suggesting the elevation of the Pater to the rank of premier corps of The Enchantings. I may even be persuaded to craft him a medal. Or … no … rather, a bijou little jewelled adornment of some sort, a decoration in the style of regalia, with perhaps an array of frills and furbelows, trinkets and baubles. It would certainly be dandy to fashion, as the centrepiece, a badge with an impressive crest upon it. A family motto perchance, or an acknowledgement of his heroic achievement. Something that tells us he is a king amongst men and the undisputed Head of the Battle family. ‘Rex inter homines. Dux familius Battalius’ … or some such thing. Yes! I shall set about it this instant so it will be ready for him to wear for work tomorrow.

A Tiny Bit Marvellous

Dora

Dad looks proper mashed-up. He’s got a big fat red lip with stitches in, and like, bruises all over. Mum says he will have a huge black eye by tomorrow. But he was obviously well the winner, I think. For the first time I looked at my dad and thought that, OK, he’s not a buff dad or anything but come on, he’s like so well fit for doing that. He proper ghetto-style beat up that creep.

I wanted to go straight back on Facebook and tell X-Man where to like shove it and everything, but then I remembered the computer was broken. But then Dad said actually it wasn’t broken, he’d just disabled it or something and taken my phone which also isn’t broken, pacifically so that I couldn’t contact X-Man. That was well dodgy of Dad. But I can see why he did that now and I’m well glad he did. I’m so not going to talk to anyone hardly now on there, coz you really don’t know who might be a total freak or something, or someone.

We all stayed up like really late and instead of getting pizza, Mum made toasted sandwiches, which was tons better. I had mine with bananas and Nutella. That is so my favourite meal which I would like so choose if I was being hanged the next day or something? I was glad Mum was here to tell it all to. For the first time in ages, we had a proper talk, with her listening and looking right at me ’n’ everything. She just kept smoothing my hair and saying, ‘I’m sorry Dotty, that must be hard’ and ‘that must be awful’ and stuff like that, when I told her all my bad stuff.

‘Fact is,’ she said, ‘you just made a mistake, that’s all. Everyone does that. We all do. Even Poo made a mistake – but look what we got – Elvis! I make loads of mistakes all the time. LOADS.’

It was well weird to hear her say that coz she’s normally the super-perfect one who like never gets it wrong. But she said some good stuff about how I must of been feeling lonely and stuff and how that would make me feel more like I could take a risk that I shouldn’t, like agreeing to meet X-Man when I didn’t know him. And that’s true, I think. I didn’t have anyone to talk to. And she said sorry again for that, and then I went and told her about the X-Factor auditions and it was, like well surprising because she said to go for it!! I never ever expected that! She even said she would come with me and stuff, or like, even just take me there if I wanted and stuff! That would be sooo good, because even though I fight with her a lot, I still like bloody need her to be there sometimes for the important stuff. Not like in the actual room with me, but like outside holding all my make-up and my glasses and my lunch and stuff. Everyone needs someone to do that, you know, be a mother slash servant type person.

She said not to worry, that we will always, no matter what, be ‘connected at a profound level’ whether I like it or not. Well. Actually. I do like it.

Just had a text from Lottie, it says, ‘Have dumped Sam. Creep. Huge mistake. Sorry. Need You. Please?’

Yeah, we all make mistakes …

A Tiny Bit Marvellous

Mo

I know it’s over. I know that, but honestly, how rude to not even acknowledge it. No message, no call, no nothing. I feel completely dismissed and unbelievably foolish. Humiliated. Did it all really mean absolutely NOTHING? Am I so supremely disposable?

In the car, the same old journey, left, right, left, second right. The same shops, school, cricket ground, war memorial. Not as zingy bright as before, when I was in … what? ‘love’? no, ‘lust’? no, ‘lost’? yes, maybe. Not as colourful as when I was in lost. I don’t mind that it’s not so bright, because that was clearly a trick of the light. My heart fooling my eyes. But now, today, my eyes are seeing all this familiar stuff again, flicking over it all, and finding comfort that it’s still the same. Everything has remained the same except me. I have been somewhere different for a while and experimented with being someone different. Am I changed? Not sure.

As I drew up outside work, my mouth went suddenly dry, and I felt extremely anxious. I was about to see him. Should I ignore him? Pretend I hadn’t gone to the hotel? Be cool? No, I had tried to call him, he would know that. Should we have a debrief of some kind? Schedule in a session so we could have the ‘closure’? How clinical and cold is that? Should I smile? Frown? How was this going to play out?

Lisa was there, behind her reception desk on which was set up a strange contraption. A tin bowl, covered with a huge leaf from one of the big pot plants, all perched on top of a small gas camping cooker. A clear tube was poking through the leaf at one end and into Lisa’s coffee mug (‘Survive or Die’ emblazoned on it) at the other.

Something in the tin bowl was boiling and dripping out of the tube into her cup. I stopped in my tracks to digest what I was seeing.

‘It’s a desert still. Turns the steam into fresh water. Never ever drink sea water or urine, Mo, unless distilled like this.’

‘And that is … ?’ Why did I ask? I knew.

‘Urine. My own. Will be good drinking water within the hour. Care to join me?’

‘Um. I would, but I’ve got a bottle of arsenic in my bag which I think I would prefer. No offence.’

‘None taken.’

‘Is George in?’

‘Yep.’

‘Veronica?’

‘Yep.’

‘… Noel?’

‘Nope.’

‘Oh … Right.’

‘Haven’t you heard?’

‘Sorry?’

‘He called in this morning to say he won’t be coming back, which is a total pain since he has endless bloody clients, only halfway through their sessions … actually, that’s a point, I need to reschedule some of those into your list, Mo –’

‘Won’t be coming back? What do you mean?!’

‘Oh, he got a call from home and someone is v. ill – is it his mother? – I can’t remember, but he has to leave immediately. He’s not even collecting his bits ’n’ bobs from his desk. He’s on a flight to New Zealand at lunchtimeish I think.’

‘Right. I see. Right.’

I started to walk towards my office in a daze. Just going? With no explanation? Just going …

I was nearly at my door, and I turned back to Lisa and heard myself say,

‘Lisa, jot down his home address, will you? I’ll drop his stuff off for him, poor thing. I can, I’ve got an hour before my first client.’ With that, I went straight into Noel’s small back room, and started to gather up anything on his desk that looked personal. Some books, a photo of a younger him with a much older, sour-looking woman with grey hair and an apron. His grandmother I presumed? There were some pens and a notebook with a Maori fern design on the front and a few scribbled notes in it, but that was all. Very little.

I raced out, grabbed the Post-it with his address on from Lisa and headed for my car.

He lived in Station Road. I didn’t exactly know it, but it must surely be near the station somewhere? Key in ignition, no seat belt, I sped out of the car park. What was I doing? This was mad … but … I had to know. Why had he not come? Was this ill relative real or not? It couldn’t possibly be his mother – he had told me she was dead. Was he fleeing? From me? Oh God, if that were true, this was going to be awkward. I didn’t care, I had to face it.

I drove to the station and up and down various roads in a semi-methodical attempt to find his road. No sign of a Station Road. I stopped by a corner shop where they told me that Station Road was the road leading up to the old station on the other side of town, behind where the new industrial estate is. Damn! Should have used the SATNAV, but I have a pathological allergy to its smug correctness. I headed towards the estate and saw it on the left – there – Station Road. Now, what number? Number 8, Lisa had written. It would be on the left at the other end. Quite a long way up, about where that car was … that taxi. The driver was loading seemingly the last case into the boot and a man was locking his front door. The man, who was, yes, was Noel, but different – a kind of crunkled bald version of him, strangely stooped. He was about to leave. I beeped my horn and tried to park my car awkwardly in the only space I could find, which was too small. I leaped out of the car with its back end still sticking out into the road, and hurried towards him.

‘Noel! Noel?’

He was shuffling towards the taxi. What was wrong with him? Where was his hair? As I came closer, I could see he was trying to shuffle faster but couldn’t. He was walking on a crutch and had his other arm out of the sleeve of his jacket and bound up. His head was shaven with a long line of stitches over a livid red gash. He was bruised and broken. One eye was half closed and I could see he had some kind of vicious-looking wiring in his mouth.

‘Oh my God, Noel. What’s happened?’

‘I’m sorry …’ It was hard to understand what he was saying through the metal hardware.

‘Were you in a crash?’

‘I have to go. I’m sorry …’

He looked squarely at me for the first time.

‘I’m sorry … I’m … just … lost … I didn’t mean … any real harm … I wouldn’t.’

He held my gaze. It had that same familiar intensity but this time contaminated with a kind of sinister shame. Each of his mumbled words hit me like a blow. In that enormous moment, I knew. He was X-Man. He had made sure I was out of the way, pitifully longing for him in a cheap red hotel room, and had been to meet Dora … And met Husband instead.

I was instantly infected with his shame because it was mine also. I had so unforgivably, so easily bought the whole pathetic scenario, and had played right into his nasty little hands.

He tried to speak …

‘I do like you –’

I slapped him hard on his battered face.

The taxi driver was shocked …

‘Hey, Mrs! Steady on. He’s hurt himself!’

‘Yes. He has. And everyone else … Fuck off. Fuck right off, right now!’

He climbed into the car and they drove off. I was shaking. With remorse, with fury, with disgrace.

A Tiny Bit Marvellous

Mo

TWO MONTHS LATER …

So. October. The winter hasn’t yet quite closed in but the trees are showing off their pre-winter coats. And I am showing off my new winter coat. Pamela and I went shopping in Bath as a treat and she wanted to know what I’d like for my fiftieth. I knew immediately …

‘I’d like a new coat, I think, Mum. Nothing brown or grey. Something loud and optimistic.’

We found it in a small shop for tall people. Ironic really that the shop is so small that only one tall person at a time can fit into it alongside the gangly sales assistant. Pamela had to wait outside in the cold and give the thumbs up or down through the shop window as she peered in. However uncomfortable the experience, it certainly sped things up. I spotted a coat on a rail and knew by the first glimpse of just the sleeve of it that it was to be my winter companion. It has a pattern of huge red roses with bright green leaves on a background of black, which only serves to make the roses look more dramatic. It’s the kind of pattern that can make you look like a walking sofa if it’s wrong, but full of confidence if it’s right. This one is right. I completely love it. It is made by someone called ‘Ann-Louise Roswald’ whose pretty label is hand sewn in at the back underneath a neat little chain to hang it with. That’s a curious name. Just as chipper as the coat. I want to hug her, whoever she is, for making something so entirely cheerful, that fits me so well. Really, I should only wear this coat for ‘best’, but I’m not going to do that. I’m going to wear it every
day so that I will never have to catch sight of myself again in a shopfront window as a gloomy spectre. If I see myself now, I will be instead a huge bunch of flowers. Infinitely preferable. When we finally sat down for tea and ‘not-as-good-as-mine-you-can’t-deny-it’ cake, Pamela was as concise and sage as ever:

‘You sorted now?’

‘Yep, thanks, Mum.’

‘Not out of your depth any more then?’

‘No. Back on the reef, ta. Can feel it under my feet. Firm as ever.’

‘That’s good then, because there’s sharks out in those deep waters.’

‘Yes. There are.’

‘They can take big chunks out of you. Huge jaws. Five rows of backward-facing teeth. Three thousand teeth.’

‘I know. Don’t worry. I got nibbled. That’s all.’

‘OK. So long as you’re all right.’

‘I am.’

‘Best way to fend off a shark attack? – Punch them right in the nose.’

‘Right. Well. Job done then.’

‘Yes, or jab their eyes out with a sharp stick.’

On the way home, she asked me to stop by Dad’s grave with her, and we stood quietly arm-in-arm for a while, remembering him.

‘Bet he can’t believe you’re fifty, Mo.’

‘Not sure I can.’

‘He wanted a little girl so much. Dead chuffed when you turned up. Chest expanded by a foot, I’d say.’

‘Nice. Good men really love their daughters, I find.’

‘Yes. We both love you very much. All six foot and fifty years of you.’

‘I know, Mum. Thanks. For everything. For … you know … the cake … and everything.’

‘Oh do shut up, you sentimental twerp.’

I dropped her off at home and she wouldn’t let me go until she had furtled around in her ‘special’ box under the bed, and found Dad’s old wristwatch. She thrust it into my hand and said, ‘Find the right home for that, would you? Somewhere safe.’

We talked a bit about how Dora’s audition for X Factor had gone the week before. I explained that I had taken her there and that she was extremely nervous. She took off her specs, went into the room and came out two minutes later, explaining that she’d got through to the next round, which meant singing in front of Simon Cowell and co. She was delighted, streaming with tears.

On the way home in the car she suddenly shouted out, ‘Not going any further!’

I went to pull over, a bit shocked.

‘No, don’t stop! I don’t like, mean now, in the car, do I? I mean on X-Factor. I’m not going to go any further because if I like stop now, I’ll always think I could have made it but if I keep going I’ll probably get rejected and just feel ordinary like everyone else. I’d rather stop now and dream about it, but still be me … d’you get me?’

It was typical of her convoluted, pessimistic logic, but it was also magnificent. She was preserving her aspirations and honing her survival technique and finally being realistic. Attagirl Dora! All the way home, she yabbered on about how fantastic it was going to be at Manchester Metropolitan on the Food Tech course and how fit she’d heard the guys were there. My baby seems to have growed up quite a bit.

My birthday itself was low-key, exactly how I’d asked for it to be. I am fifty. And I can believe it, because it’s true.

The kids and Pamela brought me champagne and beetroot cake with clotted cream all over it, in bed. We stuffed our faces and felt sick. Excellent. Then came the gifts. The remarkable, beautiful gifts. Pamela finally gave me the splendid coat, which I put on immediately and wore all day, indoors and out. Oscar gave me a poem he’d written, very much after Shakespeare, extolling the virtues of my everything. My mouth, ‘item: two thin lips in mocha red, item: two green eyes with lids to them, one neck, eight chins and so forth …’ Cheeky bugger.

Dora totally floored me by presenting me with her A level art final piece, which was a triptych of three drawings she described as ‘Beauty Across the Age Divide’. There was a charcoal portrait of Pamela, one of me and, finally, one of herself, which pleased me the most since she had included herself under a title which contained the word ‘Beauty’. At last, she has given in. Surrendered to the truth. There we were. Three generations of our family, all women, all connected in such a profound way. She had drawn all three with such love, such attention to detail. All the flaws I had seen before in Mum’s face and in the mirror were here, but interpreted as lovely, by Dora. These are the faces that made her and that love her, so she was showing her appreciation like this in return. I was deeply, sincerely touched by this beautiful thing and wept like a silly baby. As did Mum, then Dora, then Oscar. Husband was the only one with a dry eye and then … It was his turn to give.

He handed me a small box. Inside it was a simple gold ring.

‘It’s a ring.’

‘Well spotted.’

‘Is it an eternity ring?’ I asked.

‘Yes, s’pose so … but read what’s engraved on it.’

I did. It said simply, ‘REMEMBER’. I looked at him, at his lovely nervous, broken face.

‘It’s a remember-ring so you always remember … that you mean everything to us …’

And that was it, now he was blubbing too! It was hilarious, all of us pathetically out of control. Laughing and crying together. I sprang out of bed. Well, I creaked out of bed in as springy a fashion as a newly fifty-year-old woman can:

‘Right. Come on. This birthday signifies all sorts of wonderful things – like – for instance, I am halfway through my life or thereabouts, so if I am going to make changes, I’d better buck up and do it now, eh? So today, my darlin’ family, I wish to shake it up, and give YOU presents, so please step forward to collect your giftage as your name is called, in an orderly fashion, please. First. Nanny Pamela. To you, I give this cake tin, containing the fruits of my labours yesterday, a coffee and walnut cake, made from Granny Marjorie’s own recipe. I know it won’t be as good as hers, but it’s made with the love of your mum passed through you, to me. I hope you like it. I love you.

‘Next, Oscar Battle, step up. This box is for you. It contains the very finest smoking jacket or rather, robe de chambre, money can buy, made from silk in “Gentleman’s Green”. I trust you will cherish it, and I wish you both a long and happy future together. I love you.

‘Next, is for you, Husband. Please come forward. I give you this most beautiful and treasured item. It is my own dad’s watch which he wore on his wrist for his whole adult life. Mum has asked me to find it a safe home and, hon, there is nowhere safer than you. A fact which gives this whole family our unquestionable sense of security. I love love love you.

‘And finally, for your gift, Miss Dora Pamela Battle … I’m afraid you have to get dressed and be in the car in five minutes to receive it … spit spot!’

For the first time in her life, Dora was ready on time and we sped off into Reading. She was very excited to know what it was. I was extremely nervous. Eventually, I stopped the car. ‘Dora. I couldn’t bring myself to trust anyone at “Pangbourne Ink”, but I believe the guys in here are excellent …’

It was a tattoo parlour Lisa had recommended. Dora screamed.

‘Oh my actual God, Mum! Are you going to let me?’

‘Yep. And what’s more, I’m getting one too. Come on.’

After a full hour of deliberating over snakes and roses and stars and dragons and spiky Celtic bands, a decision was made. A tiny heart for me, on my back, right in the middle, between the shoulder blades, and exactly the same for her. It bloody hurt, it really did, but now we are connected to each other. For ever. Mum and daughter. For always.

So, on my fiftieth birthday, I was branded as a mum, and happy to be so.

In the evening, we all went out for dinner at the local Italian. Husband wore his new watch plus his excellent new home-made regalia. Oscar wore his smoking jacket … and alarmingly, an added turban. Pamela wore her best rabbit fur. Dora wore a low-backed slutty top to show off her tattoo, obviously still covered by a plaster, and I wore my new coat throughout the entire evening. We all got roaring drunk on too many limoncellos and rowed about everything noisily on the walk home. Once there, I took Poo and Elvis out for a last walk and was just returning at two minutes to midnight, when I stood on the opposite side of the road looking back at my house. I felt hugely grateful it was there. That house, containing all those beloved flawed people. I shuddered at the thought of how close I had come to losing them all. I would surely have lost myself had that been the case. Midnight. It wasn’t my birthday any more and now, I knew, I had permission to get on with the rest of my life. No regrets.

On Sunday morning, I was up very early, about 5am, before anyone else was up. I got dressed. I had a cup of tea and headed out to the car. I turned on the ignition, put the car in gear, and headed out into the road. No one was about. It had been raining in the night, so it was very fresh and the sun was just starting to light up the world. I pulled over at the end of our road. I took the blindfold out of my pocket. It was one of those masks you are given on the plane so you can sleep. If I needed thrill and challenge, then I should have it now, in my fifties. I always wondered – would I do this if I wasn’t scared? Well, I’m not scared any more. So go on, Mo, drive the route to work blindfold. Do it.

I take one last preparatory peek at the road ahead, put the blindfold on and pull out, slowly. Stay calm, change gear. Pull to a stop. Indicate left, pull away slowly, listening intently for other cars, heart beating so fast I can feel it in my throat. Pick up speed, steer, steer, steer. Past unseen shops, past unseen school. Indicate right for war memorial. Judge when to turn. Now? No … keep driving. NOW. Turn. Seems fine, straighten up. Huge clunk, car lurches as it mounts the pavement. Slam on brakes. Stop. Take off blindfold. Yes, I had misjudged the turn and very nearly driven into a bloody great tree opposite the cricket pitch, but hey, I did complete nearly half the journey. Bloody hell! That’s amazing! I look around, not a soul about. Thank God.

Until … I look in the rear-view mirror and there, coming round the corner, on his racing bike with matching ergonomic helmet … is Husband. Just behind. Following all the way, to check I don’t hurt myself. Always there. At a safe distance. Keeping an eye out. Yep. This is my chap.

Thankfully, I seem to be in love with someone I happen to be married to. A mountain I haven’t yet fully climbed. My husband.

Den.

OSCAR’S BANOFFEE PIE

For the base

200g digestive biscuits

100g pecan nuts

100g butter, melted

For the caramel

100g butter

150g dark brown muscovado sugar

250mls double cream

For the topping

3 large bananas

300ml double cream

1 tablespoon icing sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Dark chocolate, grated

1. Put the biscuits and nuts in a plastic bag, and bash them up using a rolling pin. Mix in the melted butter.

2. Push the mixture into the base of the tin and flatten until the surface is even. Place into the fridge for 30 minutes. While it’s in the fridge, start making the caramel. Melt the butter and brown sugar together. Once the butter is melted, add the cream and let it bubble away for 5 minutes until thickened a little, then leave to cool.

3. Spread the caramel over the biscuit base. Peel and finely slice the bananas and lay them over the caramel.

4. Whip the cream with the icing sugar and vanilla extract until it forms soft peaks, and then spread over the bananas.

5. Decorate with chocolate shavings and place in the fridge until ready to serve. Run a palette knife around the edge and gently remove the tin.

6. Take swig of home-made sloe gin. For cook.

MO’S BEETROOT CAKE

180g caster sugar

3 medium eggs

180g plain flour

180g ground almonds

50g cocoa powder

1 teaspoon baking powder

pinch of salt

200ml sour cream

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

200g raw, peeled and finely grated beetroot

Icing

170g icing sugar, sifted

2 tablespoons water

¼ teaspoon cream of tartar

1 medium egg white

½ teaspoon vanilla extract

drop of pink food colouring (optional)

Handful of hazelnuts to decorate, chopped

1. Preheat the oven to 180°C. Grease a 20cm tin with vegetable oil and line the base with baking parchment.

2. Whisk together the eggs and sugar for 5 minutes with electric beaters, until light and fluffy. Add the flour, almonds, cocoa powder, baking powder and salt. Beat to combine.