Happy Birthday and All That (14 page)

‘“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.”

She'd be working her way through a catalogue of Advent calendars, circling some. ‘Looks like penguins and polars are big this year,' she'd tell him.

In the school summer holidays he had sometimes been stuck there for months on end - from the end of July, all of August, into September. At least there were no big celebrations or festivals then, just the usual grim round of birthdays and minor family events. The shop sold things that many a child would have loved - cake decorations, tissue paper, crêpe paper, Sellotape, brown paper, ribbons, string, tags - but to Frank at sixteen they were the wrappings and trimmings, the trappings of tedium.

Twenty years later he was still there, helping out. They paid him £15 for a day, which for Posy and Frank was not to be sneezed at. The rate had remained the same for twelve years. Oh how could he have let this happen? Why didn't he make his getaway when the going was good? The trouble was that it had never been good enough. The day he'd brought home his UCCA form was the day his dad had been rushed into hospital with chest pains. A heart condition that, with surgery and medication, had now been brought well under control, and rarely seemed to trouble him. His mum had looked panic-stricken when he'd shown her the form and the prospecti for Durham, Exeter and Bristol. Bristol had been his first choice and it wasn't even that far away. But somehow he had found himself putting Southampton at the top of the list. And then there was the band, and then Posy, and then the children, and now it seemed as though he would be here for ever.

Today he was king of the stocktake. Two stocktakes a year
for as long as he could remember, January and July. Pointless, pointless. He still didn't know why they did stocktakes. What difference could it possibly make how many they have of each stupid item?

‘Come friendly bombs,' he thought as he piled up the gift boxes of Christmas cards next to him. He lost count. He always did, and just wrote down anything. Dear God. He could not even think about taking stock of his life. That way lay madness.

They were listening to Steve Wright's Sunday Love Songs. Posy had taken the children to the Common. Why couldn't she have done the bloody stocktake while he went to the swings? He could have stayed in bed while the kids watched a video or something. He had driven down there too fast, not wearing his seat belt; she was left strapping the baby into the pushchair and making the endless preparations that she deemed necessary for an hour-long trip to the swings and back. She had used the excuse that she used for everything. ‘Isobel might want a feed.' Isobel was nearly one. Surely she didn't need Posy on tap any more.

Frank realised as he revved the engine and pulled out, barely looking, that Posy only ever said ‘Drive carefully' if he had the children with him in the car.

People were e-mailing the radio show about the loves of their lives. They had all been through some very traumatic times, messy divorces, everybody dying from cancer, that kind of thing. Frank ground his teeth. But now they had all found somebody who had turned their lives around, brought them sparkle and hope. Frank pictured the loved ones trailing Stardust as they went about their work as doctors' receptionists, in offices, wherever. Call after call, e-mail after e-mail was read out. Love, love, love. On this evidence the nation must consist almost entirely of these people, bringing joy, sticking by through thick and thin, always there for each other. It made him want to throw up. How could these people be special if
there are so many of them? How can this love, this lurve, be genuine, be worth anything, if it is so commonplace?

‘And a special hello and all love and happiness to our friends Cheryl and Mark who are getting married today at the Bluewater Hotel and Country Club.'

Frank thought that talk of love should be reserved for a very few people. It should be profound and rare. Not for the masses, not for these Hallmark card emotions. He didn't know if he and Posy would qualify. He couldn't even think about Melody.

‘A special mention for my mum and dad who are celebrating their fortieth wedding anniversary on Monday. They really are the best mum and dad in the world, and we love them to bits and thanks for everything they've done for us.'

He could spit bile.

‘Hello to all the staff of the Bracken Ward at Reading Hospital. Thank you for working so hard to save my husband Tony. It's wonderful to know that he's coming home soon, at last, after the accident.'

Perhaps he would send in a joint request for Posy and Melody. But how to word it, what to ask for? Tricky. And why, he wondered, did so many dedications include the words ‘I love you even if I don't always show it'? More music. Play ‘The Lady in Red' Frank willed the radio. Play ‘Unchained Melody'. Play ‘Wonderful Tonight', play ‘Just The Way You Are'. That was a particular favourite of his. ‘Don't want clever co-on-versation …' How patronising could you get? How low could you aim?

‘Yes!' he said out loud. It was Whitney Houston singing ‘I Will Always Love You'.

‘What, Francis?' his mum asked.

‘Oh, just finished these Christmas cards.'

‘How many?' She was ready with her pen to write it down. ‘How many?'

‘Er …'

‘You've forgotten! Do them again.'

Frank's father, Albert, was a shadowy figure at the back of the shop. He rarely spoke to customers now, preferring to lurk out of sight, or to disappear for hours on errands. He liked to make price comparisons in Fancy Way's rivals, and to check out the special offers in Somerfield and Safeway.

His favourite shop was Maplins, purveyor of obscure and fiddly little switches and clips, kits and cables. Albert Parouselli was clever with electrical things. He made an extra thermostat for the central heating which could only be turned up or over-ridden by himself with his special code. The family weren't even allowed to turn the heating up for a special treat on Christmas Day: after all, the extra heat generated by the oven would warm them up. The words ‘Put On Another Jumper' echoed down the years of Frank's childhood.

When Frank was twelve they had moved out of the flat above Fancy Ways (leaving it at last to his grandparents) to a newish house in Pilchard Avenue, Fair Oak. Frank suspected that his father had chosen the address just to add to his misery and embarrassment. It was the sort of modern house that was plagued by mildew and condensation.

There seemed to be no joy in Albert Parouselli's life. If they had grapes, he would snip off an appropriately-sized bunch for each person. There was to be no picking off the main bunch. Even now, if the grandchildren were coming, Albert would make sure that there was no reckless eating of Pringles. He would use his nail to make a tiny mark on the side of the tube, hardly visible to the naked eye, to indicate where he was going to intervene and stop the eating, he could also then see if his wife had been at them when he wasn't looking. This was unlikely, Mrs Parouselli would never have eaten crisps; they were a young person's food. She did like chocolate though, and she bought quarters of chocolate nougat from the tobacconist across the road, and ate it very secretly behind the counter. If they had a box of chocolates Albert would offer them in such a
way that accepting one would appear disgustingly greedy, and having a second, well!

‘Granny and Grandpa always have cream cheese and chive Pringles when we go. Yum,' said James. Frank didn't tell him that it was probably the same tube, lasting weeks.

Albert Parouselli sometimes tried to drum some sense into his son. ‘There are some good old-fashioned values like “thrift”, and, er, “value” that have been forgotten,' he told him from time to time.

‘So why is the stuff you peddle in Fancy Ways such bad value then?' Frank felt like replying, but he never did. He knew that it was pointless. Best just to appear to go along with everything. Albert never told Frank that he hadn't wanted anything to do with Fancy Ways either. It had all just turned out that way.

What nobody seemed to grasp about Frank was that he really did not care about money, about having it, or not having it. He just did not care.

The next time Frank went round with the BettaKleen he bravely knocked at Melody's door. The dog was in and started to bark. It was 2.30 in the afternoon. Grandpa had limped back to the car. Frank had a carpet protector strip and a deodorising ashtray to deliver. He figured that if there was no answer he could leave them behind the wheelie bin and just shove a note through the door - So Sorry To Miss You - then leg it. The gods were smiling on him. He knocked again and the yapping got louder.

As he headed back down the path, between the two lines of white chain-link fence in easy-clean plastic (BettaKleen ‘Spring Into Your Garden' supplement, 2001), he heard the door open and the barking grow louder.

‘Hey Frank. I am in. I was just having a nap. It's my day off.' He turned and there was Melody's mum, Anita, in a shiny, wine-coloured dressing gown with matching slippers.

‘Oh, sorry I woke you.'

‘That's OK. I had to get up soon anyway. Want to come in?' Not really, thought Frank.

‘Cheers,' he said. ‘I'd put your BettaKleen behind the bin. Can't stay long, my grandpa's waiting in the car.' Frank knew that Grandpa would be happy for hours in the car. It was parked overlooking the water and next to some public lavatories. He had his bag of emergency supplies of biscuits and
Halls, a box of tissues and a copy of the
Echo.
He might even be able to work out how to switch the radio on.

Frank had only been in the house once or twice before when he'd been picking Melody up for gigs. He followed Anita inside. He felt his feet sink into the carpet. No wonder Melody had never left home, it was so thick and soft that any speedy progress across it would be impossible.

‘Make yourself comfy,' she said. ‘I'm just going to put the kettle on and get dressed.' Phew, thought Frank. The situation was embarrassing enough without Anita being in glamourwear. He sank down into the sofa. The dog returned snarling to its chair. While he waited he looked at the gallery of photos of Melody and Mark from bonny babies to the present day. There wasn't much space left on the walls. Anita would have to take down some of them, or perhaps her decorative ceramics, to make room for the new baby. All of these studio portraits must have cost a fortune. At least Posy had never considered them necessary, limiting herself to a few framed snaps of the children on top of the piano. Frank would have found it a bit spooky, having all of these past selves staring down, watching his mundane existence, his every move. Melody and Mark probably wouldn't see it that way. It was lucky that his own mum only had a few photos on display.

‘But you were going to be an astronaut,' his five-year-old self would say.

‘Not playing for England then?' said the ten-year-old.

‘Never been on Top of the Pops?' asked the twelve-year-old.

‘Not really that great a musician …' commented the seventeen-year-old.

‘Didn't do much with the First, did you?' said the graduation shot. And now the ‘Outside the Registry Office with Posy' picture. What would that one be saying?

Anita returned in a pair of white jeans, a black v-necked
jumper, and a snaky gold necklace that was never still. Frank realised that she was probably only a few years older than him. She would win any Glamorous Granny Competition hands down, especially if his own mum was the opposition. She put down the tray.

‘Help yourself to sugar.'

‘Thanks.' The dog helped itself to a biscuit.

Frank had no idea what to say or where to start. He took a long time putting in the sugar and made quite a performance of the stirring and returning the spoon to the tray. How should he begin? ‘Well, sorry that I knocked up your only daughter on a one-night stand, your beautiful, talented daughter. Sorry I'm already married with four kids, one of them a baby. Sorry I've got no money and nothing to offer Melody …'

Anita looked at him expectantly.

‘I don't really know what to say,' said Frank.

‘I can see that. I wanted to know, well, if you've got any plans. She's my only daughter.'

‘I'm sorry,' said Frank. ‘I didn't mean this to happen.' He could imagine how he'd be feeling if this were Poppy or Izzie.

‘Well it does take two … and I can't say I'm not pleased about the baby. It'll be lovely to have a baby again. You can't help but wish the circumstances were a bit different though.'

‘I know.'

‘So what does your wife say?'

‘She doesn't know.'

‘And how many kids have you got already?'

‘Four.' He was ashamed to say it, it sounded excessive, feckless, careless.

‘All with your wife?'

‘Yes,' said Frank. ‘Of course.'

‘There's no “of course” about it, is there? So are you going to tell her then?'

‘Well, I suppose so.'

‘These things always come out in the end. Better she hears it from you.'

‘I kind of thought it was better if she never heard it at all. Our youngest isn't even one.'

‘Well that's hardly Melody's problem, is it?'

‘No,' said Frank. He had no idea what his intentions were, or if he could find a set that were honourable.

‘I think you've got to get yourself sorted out somehow, haven't you? I know you musicians, all drifters. It's not that I'm threatening you, and nor's Mel …'

‘Um, no.'

‘The thing is, I have to look out for Melody. See that she gets what she deserves.'

‘I want to do my best for her,' said Frank. ‘Whatever I can.'

‘I know what it's like for her. I was on my own when I had her, and things were harder then.' The light flashed off her necklace. Frank wondered if it gave her super powers. She was clearly not to be crossed. She'd probably beat him in any fight.