Happy Birthday and All That (19 page)

‘So,' she said. ‘How's it all going?'

‘Great,' said Al. ‘I got Caroline and Finn to come and see it last week and she was pretty impressed. I didn't mention you. It wouldn't have had the same impact.'

‘That's absolutely fine,' said Flora. ‘Discretion assured. I haven't even mentioned to Posy that I've been working for you. Caroline need never know.'

‘They'll be the last to know,' said Al. ‘And she agreed to Finn staying over. She was amazed by the furniture. Actually I think she was a bit narked.'

‘Maybe she does smell a rat,' said Flora.

‘I think it was more to do with how come I had the money for it, and how come I'd never wanted to go to Ikea with her. I told her I hadn't wanted to go now, but getting myself and the place together was just so I could see more of Finn.' He nearly added, ‘And she fell for that one too.'

‘Good,' said Flora. She was starting to run out of time for this job. She had her invoice ready in her bag. ‘So do you want to come down and see the toy storage unit before we try getting it up the stairs?'

‘OK.' Al realised that he was going to have to act fast. His guaranteed time with Flora was running out.

She had the back seat of her car down to accommodate the monstrosity of pale wood and brightly-coloured plastic boxes that was to make his life complete.

‘I'm not sure,' Al said. ‘How much did you say it was?'

‘£49.95. No carriage charge,' said Flora.

‘Why don't we decide over dinner?' said Al. She looked stunned. ‘Flora,' he went on, ‘I really appreciate all you've done.'

‘Prompt payment and a thank you are all that's necessary.' She pulled the invoice out of her bag. ‘Here.' He caught hold of her hand and kissed it. It was very soft and lemony clean.

‘Shall I take it you don't want the storage unit?'

‘It's you that I want.'

‘You have quite the wrong idea,' said Flora. ‘And I'm quite sure that it's not me that you want.'

‘Flora …'

‘Al, I'm really flattered.'

She glimpsed a whole possible future for the two of them. She might even have a baby, maybe two. She blinked it all away.

‘It would never work.'

‘Try. Just dinner.'

‘I think I'd better go,' she said. She got into the car, the invoice still in her hand. She chucked it onto the passenger seat in an un-Flora-ish gesture of abandon. She would waste the price of a stamp to be away quickly. Al just stood there and watched as she plugged in her seatbelt and slid her sunglasses down from their resting position on the top of her head.

What could he have been thinking? What folly! He hated people who wore their sunglasses on top of their heads. Lord, what fools these mortals be! She drove away. Back he went, up the stairs and into his tidy, tasteful, clean, stupid room. But what good was sitting alone in his room? He might as well go to the pub.

On the way home from school Poppy announced the theme of her party.

‘Mermaids. And I will need a mermaid costume, and all my friends can be mermaids, and you can be a mermummy too.'

‘Yuck,' said James.

‘I don't think I should dress up,' Posy replied. The idea of herself in a mermaid costume was too awful to contemplate. ‘I wouldn't mind wearing a mermaid's crown, but I think I'll just wear a normal mortal's dress.'

‘But you will make me a mermaid costume, won't you Mummy?'

‘Of course. I wasn't a Saturday girl at Laura Ashley for nothing.'

‘What?'

‘Nothing.'

‘And we should go to the beach and find lots of shells and pearls and seaweed to decorate things with.'

‘Of course,' said Posy. What was she getting herself into now? She could cut up crêpe paper to make frondy seaweedy decorations. They could have shells on the table, a cake in the shape of a shell (by Aunty Flora), sealife-themed prizes, hunt the starfish, pin the tail on the dolphin or the seahorse …

‘We'll have a whale of a time!' she said.

She remembered that Frank had a great line in fish jokes, although they would probably be wasted on the young.

In a terraced house in Winchester Linus the Magician sat staring at his diary. He wondered if there was any way he could re-jig the bookings to accommodate Mrs Parouselli. He would have liked to see her again. Perhaps he could move one of the school bookings forwards, but no. He didn't want to seem unprofessional, and the thought of phoning up some Parents' Association secretary, re-opening negotiations, having to wait for the committee to consider it and get back to him … he had better leave the Parouselli party to Stella. He went back to his current project. He was making a magic box. The cleverly-angled mirrors meant that things, even quite large things, could disappear inside it. There was a particularly lovely Chopin Nocturne on the radio. Once he finished assembling the box he would clean out the rabbits. Stella was planning a new set of puppets, a nuclear family of meerkats. He was also working on designs for their set, a lookout, which was to have a number of exits for them (or some pretty impressive special effects) to pop out of. He heard
Stella's key in the lock. She was back from a playgroup booking. He went to help her unload.

Stella's method of organising her props was the toast of the Wessex Association of Wizards. She had even given talks at the monthly meetings on the subject ‘Magic of Organisation - Organisation of Magic'. So many magicians just hurled everything into a trunk and wasted hours sorting and setting up and looking for things that they had mislaid. They now supplied boxes and many-pocketed canvas bags, designed by Stella and made by Linus to wizards from all over Wessex. Some of them were beyond helping though, irredeemably messy and disorganised.

‘You can't teach an old dog new tricks,' Linus had quipped when he saw Stella shake her head in disbelief at some of the members' chaotic ways. She disagreed.

Stella went to change out of her outfit, some denim dungarees trimmed with red spangles, a drapey jacket and pink DMs. It had echoes of her post-punk, ‘Come On Eileen' teenage tastes. Neither of them was working that night, and she had been planning a meal around the things that she had bought at the farmers' market that morning.

‘I saw you fixed that ridge tile, thanks!' she called down the stairs.

‘Cleaned out the gutters too,' he told her. ‘I think I'll repaint the weatherboards. I haven't done them for a few years. The rest of the roof looked fine.' He made twice yearly checks from the bottom of the garden with the binoculars, as well as keeping the gutters in tip-top condition.

Frank had only had a few hours' sleep, but that was normal for him. He fell asleep easily enough (one bottle of red wine, a bottle of Kingfisher lager) but for some reason he had snapped awake around 4 a.m. He had lain there worrying about everything. Even his usual trick of trying to remember the words of all the songs he most hated had failed to get him back to sleep. He put them in ascending order of awfulness, and then lay there fiddling about with the positions.

1. True by Spandau Ballet.

2. Rio by Duran Duran.

3. Shout/Everybody Wants To Rule The World by Tears for Fears.

4. The Diana ‘Candle in the Wind'.

But who would he choose if it was a matter of so-called style? Perhaps the Thompson Twins. They had been really something. Then he began to choose the music for his funeral. He would have to leave clear instructions. Posy would be bound to get it wrong. Perhaps he should entrust it to Al, assuming Al lasted longer than him. Flora would be the one to get it perfectly organised. She wouldn't be fazed. That would be if she could fit it into her busy schedule. Eventually, with amusing, mean thoughts about his sister-in-law, he fell back to sleep.

Poppy flung herself on to her parents' bed at quarter past six. Her sharp little knees and elbows made further sleep impossible. Posy pulled her closer and breathed in the chocolate Nesquik smell of her hair.

‘Mummy. You haven't forgotten it's nearly my birthday have you?'

‘Your birthday will be cancelled if I don't get back to sleep,' said Frank.

‘No! No! You can't cancel birthdays, they just come!' Poppy was almost sobbing. Posy hugged her tighter.

‘Daddy's only joking. Of course you can't cancel birthdays.'

‘Well,' said Poppy. ‘We need to get all the things for the party. And don't forget to make my costume and buy me some presents and a card.'

‘Don't worry, Poppy. I've got it all planned. Today we are going to get some shells for decorations.'

‘Are we?' said Frank.

‘We can just go to Netley. It has good shells,' Posy said placatingly.

‘Huh.'

‘We'd better bring a bag. If I find a starfish can I bring it home for a pet, or a seagull, or an oyster with a pearl in?' Poppy asked.

‘Or a puffin,' Posy added. ‘Or a penguin, or a pelican, or a cormorant. You sometimes see cormorants at Netley, but they might be a bit tricky to catch.'

‘Can we take a picnic?' Poppy asked.

‘Of sorts.'

‘I can never decide if Netley is a profoundly sad and depressing place, or a beautiful and uplifting one,' Posy said as they pulled into the car park. She looked up at the Victorian tower and chapel, all that remained of the military hospital, then down towards the shore. ‘You can't park here, on this side.'

‘Bloody disabled,' said Frank. ‘They get all the best spots, all the best views.' He backed the car into another space. ‘Right. You take them to the beach, and I'll sit in here and listen to the radio.'

‘Ha ha. Not likely.'

‘Don't you want to come, Daddy?'

‘He's only joking. He wouldn't miss it for anything.'

‘Many a true word spoken in jest,' said Frank, but he remained seated and started to roll a cigarette.

‘I don't know why you have to smoke in places of outstanding natural beauty,' Posy said.

He couldn't be bothered to reply. He might have said, ‘Because we have just driven past where Melody lives. Because I may have ruined her life, and maybe yours, and maybe mine. Because I am trapped. Because the last time I was near here I was screwing her in the van,' but fortunately he didn't. He knew that Melody only had a few more weeks to go. He should ring her to see how she was.

They were soon plonking about on the beach. Pathetic little waves washed over the toes of their wellies. Tom was almost overcome by joy when a container ship went by. They could see speedboats involved in some sort of racing event, or perhaps just showing off, and Red Funnel ferries on their way to the Isle of Wight. There were rich pickings of shells, and pieces of old rope and driftwood. The children wanted to bring dead crabs home for party decorations, but Posy said no. She was pleased that they were all having a wonderful time.

Then Frank said ‘So, do I really have to come to this mermaid party?'

‘What do you think?' Posy replied. ‘Don't let Poppy hear you talk like that. Anyone would think you didn't want her to have a birthday.'

‘I was only joking. You know mermaids aren't my kind of thing.' Well, only twenty-two-year-old blonde mermaids from
Weston who sing, he added bitterly to himself. Perhaps she might come walking by with her mum's foul little dog. He kind of hoped so.

‘What's that story about the mermaid who gets legs?' he asked.

‘Oh,' said Posy.' “The Little Mermaid”. She falls in love and becomes human, but every step she takes is like walking on sharks' fins, something like that. I can't remember what happens.'

‘She probably tops herself,' said Frank.

‘Or tops and tails herself. Do you want me to take Isobel for a bit? Your arm must be falling off.'

Posy headed back up the beach with the baby and spread out her mac for them to sit on. Isobel could amuse herself by picking up stones and shells and trying to get them into her mouth before Posy stopped her. One day, Posy thought, we will be the sort of family with a blanket lined with a groundsheet that we keep in the car. One that folds up and has cute little handles. She had some packets of white chocolate buttons in her bag, what her Aunt Bea would have referred to as ‘iron rations'. She called the children to come and join them. Frank came too, rolling another cigarette. Tom had let the sea get over the tops of his wellies, and the brine was wicking up the legs of his jeans. Posy knew that the tender skin on the insides of his legs would soon be chafed red. She wondered if mutated algae and viruses, warm from the Fawley oil refinery across the water, were now trying to breach his defences. Definitely an early bath for Tom. Perhaps Matey would act like Dettol on him. She ate most of Isobel's bag of buttons, bad for a baby to have sweeties anyway …

‘It would be nice to live out here,' she said. Posy always said this when they came to Netley. She looked longingly at the Victorian villas, and the pretty terraces, the boats and the deluxe duck-pond that they passed on the way.

It didn't occur to Frank that they might live in one of those big posh houses. He imagined himself living in a solitary beach hut. Ah, that would be the life … the simplicity of it all. He would sleep under an army blanket on the hut's narrow bench. No need to wash, just have a swim. No cooking, just go to a café. Imagine no possessions, he thought, just his bass, hardly any clothes, one pair of shoes, a camping gas stove, one tin mug, one spoon, one knife. He would brew coffee that blew his mind, and sit in the dark, drinking whisky, soothed by the warm onshore breezes. It would be like van Gogh's room, just him and his boots. No decorations, no videos of Fireman Sam, no rabbits, no BettaKleen. If Posy had the same hut she would make it into a colossal changing bag. She would fill it with bottles of purple spray-on SPF 30 suncream, plastic sandwich boxes, wet wipes, first-aid kits, and brightly coloured beach games from the Early Learning Centre. He shuddered.