Happy Birthday and All That (15 page)

‘I know she deserves the best, better than this,' said Frank. Better than me. He felt like saying that it was all Melody's choice, that she didn't actually have to have the baby, but he didn't. He knew that he wouldn't have been very pleased if Anita and Melody had suggested the same about James, Poppy, Tom or Isobel.

‘Well. We'll have to find a way to make it work,' said Anita.

Frank could see that she wasn't that impressed, that she was waiting for him to make some firm offers or assurances about telling Posy. He should probably be giving money already. The shopping probably hadn't started yet, but it could only be a matter of weeks. Of course he didn't have any on him. He'd have to try to get some extra gigs and not let Posy find out about them.

‘They'll be living here at first, but Melody's already got her name down for a place of her own. It will be lovely to have a baby again …'

Perhaps, Frank thought, she was wondering if he was going to move in with them. It hadn't occurred to him until now.

‘I'd better go,' he said. ‘My grandpa's waiting.' He certainly wasn't going to ask for the money for the BettaKleen. As he trudged back to the car he realised that neither of them had mentioned love.

Al's appearance was deceptive. He had thick straight fair hair that fell across his forehead and gave him a romantic, heroic look, just the sort of look that Flora had once gone for. It had fooled Caroline too. If people's hair reflected their true natures, then Al should have had unkempt, greasy, chaotic locks that became hobbity as he grew older.

At university in Durham Flora had only ever been out with ex-public school boys. She hadn't made a conscious decision to do this, it had just turned out that way. It hadn't brought her much luck in love. In those days Flora fell quickly but quietly in love with people. (She never let them know how she was feeling.) She thought each time that she had found somebody wonderful, but all too quickly she discovered that they had feet of clay. Then they would start to get on her nerves. She would find herself making too many useful suggestions of ways in which they could run their lives more efficiently or improve themselves, or at least more resemble the person whom she had once thought them to be.

‘Have you ever considered changing course from Economics to Law?' she might say; this one, Marcus, really would have made a very good-looking barrister.

‘Had you ever thought that if you kept most of the tea towels clean, in the drawer, and only ever had two out at a time your kitchen wouldn't be so full of dirty tea towels?'

‘You know, if you kept all of your bank statements in a file in chronological order you would be able to see where you
were overspending and avoid some of these bank letters and charges that annoy you so much.'

‘Perhaps if you planned out your week's meals in advance you wouldn't find yourself spending so much on takeaway food.'

‘Have you ever wondered what it would be like if you decided not to drink every night of the week?'

‘Why not throw away all of your socks, buy eight identical black pairs, and never have this problem again?'

This wasn't a strategy that made for long-term romance or contentment. As soon as Flora saw that the object of her affections (or best intentions) wasn't going to comply she became annoyed by them, and they by her, and things would fizzle out. It seemed that she would have to find perfection elsewhere. She wrote her dissertation on Christina Rossetti. So it was that she left university unattached, and stayed more or less that way.

When Al met Flora on the Parousellis' doorstep he was at a low ebb. He had just had a twenty-minute phone row with Caroline because she had said that he was meant to have Finn on Sunday, when he could have sworn that the last thing he'd known, it was meant to be Saturday that week. He had met Flora a few times, but he had never really noticed how pretty she was. He'd thought that Posy was the pretty one before, maybe he'd been wrong. There was something about the way that Flora (who was on an errand of mercy, the Parousellis' hoover having packed up) was holding that Dyson: her purple linen trousers exactly matched it, the yellow was picked up by her bright hair. It really tugged at him. It made her look as though she had magical powers. He could feel himself being sucked towards her.

Posy invited them both in and made them tea. She told Al that she had no idea where Frank was, but he had a pupil later, and would be back.

‘I can wait,' he told Posy, smiling at Flora. ‘I thought we were going over a few songs.'

‘I thought you were meant to be having Finn today, anyway,' Posy said.

‘Well I thought it was tomorrow, Caroline reckoned it was Sunday. Sore point,' he said.

‘Oh don't you have a regular thing?' Flora asked, sensing something in need of organisation.

‘Well it's kinda regular. It is Saturdays and/or Sundays, and sometimes in the week if Caroline has extra work on.'

‘She's a sign language teacher, and she does interpretation for social services too,' Posy said. She liked to tell people how interesting, useful and impressive her friends were, as though it somehow enhanced her own employment potential and improved her stay-at-home mum status.

‘I know,' said Flora.

‘As far as she's concerned I got it all wrong. Forgot Finn,' said Al.

‘Sounds like you need a diary,' Flora couldn't help interjecting. Posy thought that Al wasn't really the diary type.

‘Would you like me to leave the Dyson here, so you have time to do the whole house?' Flora asked.

‘I don't know when I last hoovered the children's bedrooms,' Posy said. She had been hoping that Flora might spring into action and do it all for her. Flora, of course, had a cleaner. She had forgotten what domestic drudgery was really like.

‘Are you off somewhere?' Posy asked.

‘I have a client in half an hour.'

‘What do you do?' Al asked.

‘Perfect Solutions,' said Flora. ‘Here's my card.' She pushed it across the Parousellis' sticky oilcloth at him.

‘ “Perfect Solutions”,' Al read. ‘“Events organised. Clutter cleared. Storage sorted. Problems Solved.” I could do with some of that.' He noticed that it ended with Flora's phone number and e-mail address. As if he'd be the sort to e-mail. He
put it into the pocket of his jeans. ‘Cheers,' he said. Then Frank came in.

‘Hi everyone. Any tea left, Pose? Whatcha doing then, Al?'

‘I thought we were having a practice.'

‘Tomorrow, mate.'

‘Sounds like you need Perfect Solutions,' said Posy.

‘We could go through a few now,' said Frank. ‘I've got a pupil in an hour, that's all. You don't need me, do you, Posy?'

‘Isobel's asleep.'

‘Ah. OK.' It seemed to Frank that if she didn't need help with childcare, Posy didn't need him at all.

‘Come on then, bring your tea,' he told Al and they headed for the back door. As he passed the back of Flora's chair Al caught the scent of lemons, or maybe it was limes, something bright and clean and sweet and sharp.

Out in Frank's shed they rolled up straight away.

‘So, is Flora seeing anyone?'

‘Don't think so. Don't really know. Don't think she could find anyone perfect enough. Don't even think of it, mate.'

‘If I hadn't blown it with Caroline and Finn … Too late now though.'

Frank started to play, soft, dark notes. Al took his sax out of its case. I will always have you, he thought as he brought it to his lips. It shone gold in the sunlight.

When Frank's pupil arrived, coming through the side gate and knocking on the window of the summer house, Al left. He went back through the kitchen, hoping to see Flora. Only the Dyson remained. Posy was sitting feeding the baby in what he realised was her typical pose. She had a catalogue of expensive-looking wooden toys and one of trampolines open in front of her.

‘That looks pretty good,' he said and was immediately embarrassed. Did she think he meant the breastfeeding? ‘I mean that trampoline,' he quickly added.

But all she did was whisper ‘mmm'. She was stroking the baby's hair, and didn't want to distract her by saying anything louder. She didn't know why she was even looking at the catalogues. The children had enough toys and they would never be able to afford a trampoline. She had just finished her book, and she loved reading junk mail, so soothing.

One of the best things about feeding her babies had been the amount of enforced sitting down and reading time. She had learnt how to turn a page in complete silence so as to not disturb the sleepy infant. Strange how long the feeds took. No wonder the Parouselli babies never had bottles. When James was a baby she'd read all of Thomas Hardy (apart from
Jude the Obscure,
of course). She would never choose anything too unpleasant in case it somehow got through the milk. Jane Austen, Barbara Pym and Elizabeth Taylor were ideal. She often hid her book if Frank came in and pretended that she was concentrating on the baby. How self-indulgent it must look, her sitting there, endlessly reading.

Al climbed the stairs to the bedsit that had been home since Caroline booted him out. It was in a block called Stanley Mansions which, since its elegant beginnings, had been further divided into many small, sad compartments. Caroline wouldn't let Finn visit him here, so either they stayed at Caroline's or hung out on the Common or in cafés or at playgrounds. Finn had been there a few times until Caroline had visited and was appalled (her word) by the squalor (also her word). She said that she didn't want Finn seeing his daddy somewhere that was so dirty and sad. He could see her point. But now that he was on his own, why bother? There were about two thousand CDs on the floor; these, along with a few towels and one set of sheets, were all that he had taken away from their marriage. He had almost forgotten the wedding with all the presents piled up on a table. Let her have it all.

He kicked aside some cartons that were smeary with the liquor of the takeaways that now were his nightly nutrition. He never got bored because he rang the changes - curry, kebab, pizza, curry, fish and chips, kebab, and so on, ad infinitum. He rejected Thai (fancy, foreign, not filling, too healthy). Al thought that he was managing pretty well now. Straight away after the split he would usually pass out before he had managed to eat much and would wake from the cold at three or four in the morning with the stuff all over his shirt and trousers, the fork often still in his hand. Then he had a phase, when he was trying to get himself together again, where he would buy frozen dinners to microwave, but he often ended up just hacking bits off and sucking them when he got in from the pub as he couldn't be bothered to wait, and wasn't really that hungry. So now, a year on from the split, eating something while it was hot was a major achievement and it was possible that he would turn into a fat guy. Often he took a short cut through the cemetery on his way home from one of their regular gigs. There were turnstiles instead of gates. He decided that if he got too fat for those cemetery turnstiles, he would cut back, but he still had a way to go.

But he had begun to feel lonely in a different way. Not just desperately missing Finn, but missing being with someone. It was something he hadn't expected. It had been a relief to get away from Caroline's constant disapproval of him. He had just wanted to be his own person, but now he needed a woman in his life. Something made him start piling the takeaway cartons into each other. (So this is why they give babies stacking cups, he thought, this is the skill they need to acquire.) He didn't have any binbags. He shoved them into some of the takeaway bags and put them by the door, he'd put them out later. He opened the window. He took the sheets off the bed and started to gather all of his clothes. He'd have to take them to the launderette. A service wash would cut out some of the tedium.

When he got back he phoned Flora. He might have guessed that he would get the machine.

‘Flora. It's Al. I wondered about some of your perfect solutions for my flat.' He left his number and hung up.

Flora phoned him back that evening, just as he was about to go out. He was glad the call hadn't come later. It might have been hard to sound sincere with a background of pub.

‘My rates are £50 for the initial consultation, but that is deductible, if you take me on, from the hourly rate of £12.50. Does that sound manageable?' She knew that he had left teaching and was now doing this and that. He thought that she sounded bossy as well as patronising, but still, she was pretty, and he could do with being sorted out, just so Finn might be allowed round again. It was miserable spending every Saturday or Sunday, whichever Caroline insisted it was to be, freezing in Mayflower Park. Maybe he could get a TV and a stack of videos for Finn.

‘That's fine,' he said. ‘I've got lots of work on, just no time to get sorted. Cash rich, time poor, that's me.' Lying toad, that's me, he smiled to himself.

‘I could come round to agree on what needs doing on Monday. Do you have any time in the day? Otherwise, evening is fine.'

‘I've work on in the morning. How about two?' Afternoon delight, he thought.

‘Two is fine. Give me the address.'

‘Flat 11, Stanley Mansions, Lodge Road.'

Al spent Monday morning driving for the scrapstore. He picked up sacks of offcuts of wood from pine-furniture makers. Miriam, the scrapstore supremo, said that these could be used for pre-school woodwork activities. He imagined Finn and his buddies let loose with drills and saws. The mind boggled. There was a stack of gold card from the cigarette
factory. Nice stuff. He wondered why they weren't using it. A few more stop-offs and the van was loaded with bolts of fabric that had been printed back to front, the usual reams of paper and card, and some lengths of what looked like parachute material. Perhaps, he mused, Southampton's pre-schoolers were going to be making their own aircraft disaster survival kits. The sun was warm and he drove with the window down, radio blaring, enjoying being a van man. This certainly beat teaching. He got back to the scrapstore as quickly as he could. He wanted time to have a shower and tidy up a bit before Flora arrived. He mustn't let her find out what he was really like. He aimed to look appealing, but cool. Not desperate.