Just a Girl, Standing in Front of a Boy (18 page)

It’s Wednesday. Joe King’s party isn’t until Saturday. How am I supposed to get through the days? Every time I’ve met Joe King in the past it’s been in a random, bumping-into-each-other way. But now I know, I actually
know
, I’ll be seeing him on Saturday. It’s very hard to think of anything else.

From what Al gleaned from Gemma, it seems that Joe King and Felicity have seen each other a few times, but so far no kissing. So Rules of the Sisterhood say I should stay away. But even if this wasn’t a sisterhood situation I should still steer clear. Joe King terrifies me. Imagine loving and losing Joe King. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Although, I still can’t wait to see his gorgeous smiling face. It’s all I can think about. I haven’t even been reading, just daydreaming.

It’s Wednesday afternoon so I’m home early. Home alone, in fact. Mum’s nowhere to be found, which can only be a worry.

I’m tiptoeing into my room. No idea why. There’s no one else is in the flat and it’s my room. I turn on the light and stand properly on my feet.

‘Hello, lovely clothes,’ I say as though they’re chubby gurgling babies.

I sit on the bed for a moment to ponder. I’m not going to dress up on Saturday. The rules state that I shouldn’t tart up, because Joe and I have flirted in the past, but now he’s with Felicity, so I must step aside. Technically though I am single and it is a party, so I could tart up in the hope of meeting someone else. But I have no interest in meeting anyone else. How could I flirt with someone else with Joe King in the room? I couldn’t. I flop forward and sigh. Having a monumental crush on Joe King is exhausting, there’s just so much to think about. I hardly ever think about Matt, except when he texts, and then I just feel guilty and don’t answer. I’m all in a whirl for Joe King. It can’t be normal.

‘What shall I wear?’ I whisper. I can’t believe I’m doing this on a Wednesday.

I stand up and walk to the black corner. I spot a dress I’d forgotten I had. It’s a faded black T-shirt dress that falls off one shoulder. It’s fits well, although it’s not too clingy and it’s not at all glam. But it has a big heart that looks like it’s been drawn in chalk across the chest. That’s the one. I pull it off the hanger and throw it on the bed, smiling. Philippa will no doubt have much to say about the fact I’m turning up to Joe King’s house with a bloody great heart emblazoned across my chest.

Then I turn, and I find myself looking at Mum’s belongings. I was only able to give her a drawer, everything else she’s kept in her cases. They lie one on top of the other at the end of the bed. The massive box that must contain DVDs of me stands next to them, it’s open, its cardboard wings stand upward. I push them apart and peer in the box. A pile of small jiffy bags and a piece of paper slide slowly out and onto the floor. I knew it. She’s jiffy bagging them up and sending them to people. I put the jiffys back in the box and pick up the piece of paper. It’s full of names and addresses. I was so right. Mum’s writing is quite a scribble. I don’t recognise any of the names though, and most of the addresses are in London. She can’t do this to me or Damien the Dealer. I leave the box as I found it. And then I turn my attention to her case. I start to pull back one of the zips. The case is tightly filled and it’s quite tricky to undo but I manage to pull it back a few inches. All I see is a white paper bag like you get from the chemist, but then I quickly re-zip the bag closed. I shouldn’t be snooping on my mother. I turn the light off and hurry out of the room.

I think I’ll buy a small cake and take it up to Doris. That could be my good deed for today. I fish my mobile out of my bag and dial the number for Nunstone General.

‘Ward E4,’ I tell the operator when they ask.

I always feel bad calling wards at the hospital. I always imagine the poor nurse, seeing to a patient, and then having to leave him or her, possibly in a state of undress, to go and wash her hands, in order to answer the phone. Perhaps I shouldn’t have called. But then what if I go up there only to discover I’m outside visiting hours.

‘Hello. E4.’

‘Oh, hi there, so sorry to bother you. Is it all right for me to come and visit Doris Framer in half an hour?’

‘Mrs Framer?’

‘Yes, she was admitted on Friday.’

‘Oh, oh, I’m so sorry. Doris passed away this morning. I’m terribly sorry.’

‘Oh. Oh.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Thank you.’

I hang up. I walk to the window and look out over Tiddlesbury High Street, at all the people coming and going, shopping and smoking and driving and loitering. Mum used to work for a hospice and now I work at the surgery, I’ve almost got used to death, and the inevitable fact that we’re all going to go at some point. But the thing I’ve always found so odd, is that you can see someone and joke with them one day, and although they might be ill, they’re still full of life. Yet, a few days later, that’s it. They’ve gone. I’m not really religious, but that life, that spirit, it’s got to go somewhere, hasn’t it? I hope it goes somewhere pleasant. I hope there’s a big old party for all souls that goes on for eternity. Perhaps they’re dancing around me now. I’d rather think of that than nothingness. I just hope, for Doris’ sake, there’s some booze.

My phone rings. It’s Philippa’s landline number.

‘Hey.’

‘Jenny. Hello.’

‘Oh, Dr Flemming, hello, have you heard about Doris?’

‘Well, yes, I have, that’s why I’m phoning actually. I just had quite a ferocious call from her daughter-in-law. The family, it appears, are blaming the surgery for over-exciting Doris and are planning to launch some sort of enquiry. I feel I should warn you, Jenny. Doris made it clear that there was a young lady at the surgery who liked to show her comedy, and obviously they want to blame someone. So I would just keep a low profile. I’m sure you weren’t going to, but don’t make any contact with the family. If there’s a case against us it might affect it.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes, terrible state of affairs all round. I’m sure it’ll all blow over and it’s just a response to their grief. So just keep out of their way, while they calm down.’

And now… the question is… what am I supposed to do about her Big Send Off?

‘Sorry to call you, guys. I didn’t know what to do.’

‘Fan-Tastic, never apologise for calling a Musketeer Mission,’ Al says, he’s trying to spoon cold dauphinois potato into his mouth without getting it on his balaclava. I watch him, thinking about telling him to take the clava off. But the sight of him sat there like a giant tadpole is oddly comforting and he is at home after all, there’s scant chance he’ll get arrested. I leave him be.

Mum strides into the kitchen but stops abruptly when she sees Al.

‘What the…?’ she says.

‘It’s only Al,’ I inform her.

‘I realise that, Jenny, but he’s wearing a balaclava.’

‘I’m a musketeer, Pam,’ he says proudly and winks.

I raise my eyes to the ceiling and shake my head.

‘Mrs T, there’s not much to do in these parts,’ Philippa says by way of explanation. ‘Every so often, if we have a task or a mission to complete we don balaclavas and call ourselves musketeers. We’re not proud.’

The corners of Mum’s mouth turn upward.

‘Can I join you?’ she asks.

‘You certainly can, Pam, there’s even a clava for you here in the tea towel drawer,’ Al says, putting his dish on his lap and twisting in his seat to open the drawer and rummage for our spare balaclava. ‘Here we are, the burgundy for you,’ he says, handing it to her.

She puts it on eagerly and sits down at the table between Al and me.

‘So, Fan-Tastic, musketeers at the ready,’ Al says, digging back into the dauphinois.

‘Um. Doris died today,’ I say, quietly.

‘Oh, Fan, I’m sorry,’ he says, looking up from the oven dish. ‘And I thought she looked fine when we saw her that day at the hospital as well.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I did too.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, love,’ Mum says. She takes my hand. She’s always holding my hand at the minute.

‘It’s all right,’ I say, squeezing her hand. ‘We’re all going to go at some point.’

‘Hmmm.’ Mum squeezes my hand back. ‘And at least she got old. It’s good to get old.’

‘Yeah, but there’s more.’

‘Tell all, musketeer,’ Philippa says, leaning forward, ready for action.

‘Well.’ I sit back and look at them all before I begin my tale. ‘Doris was desperately disappointed with the standard of the funerals that she went to. She would come in moaning, saying that they were the only parties she ever got invited to at her age, and they were rubbish. “I’ll come straight out with it, Fanny,” she would say. “It was shite.” She had quite a mouth on her. So she took to planning her own funeral, her Big Send Off she called it. Anyway, I know all about it. And then when I went to visit her she asked me to organise it for her when she passed away, and she gave me a cheque.’

I slide it out of my diary and push it onto the kitchen table. Philippa pulls it towards her.

‘Five grand!’ she cries.

‘Yep, Doris is serious about this being a major bash. She wants Jägerbombs and everything.’

‘I so want to go to this funeral,’ Philippa whispers.

‘But the problem is, Doris asked me to organise her funeral, but I’ve been told not to go near the family because they’re launching an enquiry into her death and blaming me and the surgery. What do I do? I’ve somehow got to tell Steve Wilmot and Michelle Cullet how they should organise this funeral without going near them.’

‘Ouch.’ Philippa winces.

‘Have you got this in writing at all, Fan?’ Al asks.

I shake my head.

‘Was anyone there while you had the conversation?’ he tries.

‘Not the one in hospital. But lots of people in the surgery heard the jokey way we were planning it and Disgruntled Dave, the cameraman, will have some stuff on video too, I think.’

‘You need a lawyer,’ Mum states.

‘You do, Fan-Tastic, you do,’ Al agrees.

‘Do I?’ I say surprised. ‘How can I afford a lawyer?’

‘Does anyone know a lawyer?’ Philippa asks.

‘No.’

‘No.’

‘No.’

‘Can anyone pretend to be a lawyer?’ Mum asks excitedly.

I’m torn between feeling quite impressed and terrified that she suggested that.

‘I think that might be a little extreme,’ I tell her.

‘Sorry, it’s this balaclava. I’m getting carried away,’ she pants.

‘Someone must know a lawyer,’ Philippa says, bashing her fist to her head.

‘I don’t know about getting a lawyer,’ I say. ‘But we do need to do something quickly, she died today. The funeral needs to be soon.’

‘So. Why don’t you send Steve a letter?’ Philippa suggests. ‘Explaining what Doris said about her funeral.’

‘I thought that,’ I agree. ‘The only thing that worries me is, what if, for some reason, he doesn’t read it. Or doesn’t read it until it’s too late. He needs all this information, like now, so he can get cracking with the organising.’

‘We could talk to him on your behalf,’ Al suggests. ‘We don’t have to steer clear of him.’

‘But what if he doesn’t want to talk to us?’ Philippa counters.

‘He’ll have to,’ Al says thoughtfully.

‘We’ll have to kidnap him,’ Mum says with a gasp.

We all stare at her.

‘Mum!’

‘I like it.’ Al nods.

‘You can’t kidnap him!’ I splutter.

‘Why not? We’re not going to hurt him,’ explains Al. ‘We’ll just lure him into my car and drive him about for a bit and talk to him about the funeral.’

‘You can’t kidnap someone in a Fiat Punto!’

‘No,’ Philippa agrees. ‘Al, do you know anyone who’s got a van?’

‘Joe’s got a van.’

‘Awesome on every level!’ Philippa says.

‘Nah, Joe’s at band practice, I called him earlier to see if he was musketeering tonight,’ Al says.

‘Did you?’ I ask Al, suddenly very sidetracked from Doris’ funeral.

‘Yeah, anything to help my favourite flatmate who fancies the skinny jeans off him.’ He winks at me.

‘I don’t. Anyway, he’s with Felicity.’

‘Jenny lurves —’

‘Philippa! Stop it now, back to the mission. There’s absolutely no need for kidnap, or anything that hints of a Bruce Willis film, thank you. But I think I’ve cracked it. You lot just have to go and see Steve Wilmot and tell him what Doris wants for her Big Send Off.’

‘Oh yeah, so what was it she wanted again?’ Philippa asks.

‘Tell you what, I’ll write out a letter. All you have to do is make sure he gets it and reads it. Is that OK?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes.’

‘Excellent because we have to do it tonight.’

‘Tonight!’ Three sets of wide eyes goggle at me. They weren’t expecting that.

‘Yes, people act quickly on funerals. I’ll go and write the letter in the lounge. You stay here. I won’t be a second.’

An hour and seven minutes later.

‘How’s it going, Fan?’ Philippa says, walking towards where I am kneeling on the floor, bent over the low-slung coffee table writing, surrounded by at least twenty scrunched-up discarded efforts.

‘Bloody awful. I keep missing words out, I’ve spelt funeral wrong and cheque wrong and I can’t seem to write in a straight line, my lines look like planes taking off. Oh!’ I scribble through the latest draft. ‘It’s not easy. What am I supposed to say? Hello, you might remember me, you slept with me for a bet years ago, your gran wants me to organise her funeral.’

Philippa looks at me and then looks at her watch. ‘Have you still got that Dictaphone?’

I nod.

‘Record yourself saying it on there. We’ll play it to him. We’ll be here all night if we wait for you to write a letter.’

I think my best friend might be a genius.

‘Matilda, help me out here,’ I instruct my automobile-sized plant, as I enter the bathroom, Dictaphone in hand. I close the door, put the toilet lid down and settle myself upon it.

I press record on the Dictaphone. I wait until the tape starts to turn. I take a deep breath.

‘Hello, Steve,’ I say. ‘Long time no see… not since you broke my heart and completely ruined any hope of me ever being able to trust a man again, you complete turd…’

I press stop and rewind.

‘Matilda!’ I hiss at my plant. ‘You’re supposed to be helping me out.’

Another deep breath.

‘Do it properly. You haven’t got much time,’ I whisper to myself. I press record again.

‘Steve, hello, it’s Fanny, er, Jenny Taylor, here, from school, sorry about the, er, the um, unconventional way you’ve come to hear this. There are some things I need to say to you, and they’re very important, but I’ve been told not to come near you, and all that. So…

‘Well, before I get to the nitty-gritty, I just want to say, Steve, I’m so sorry about your gran. About Doris. God, you had the coolest nan. So funny, and kind, and full of love. She was full of all the good things. It made my day when she came into the surgery.’

I pause, my voice is getting shaky. I swallow.

‘I’ll really miss her, so I can’t imagine how you’re feeling. I know you’re hurting at the moment. But I hope you’re happy, I mean, I hope that things turned out well for you, in life, since I saw you last. If that makes sense. I wish you well, I just wanted to say that. Despite what, you know, what happened, between us. Anyway.

‘You probably want to know why you are now being played this message. Well, it’s this. Your nan, Doris, has asked me to organise her funeral. I know that sounds ridiculous and I don’t know whether she’s told you this, or just assumed I’d be able to contact you in the normal way and explain it to you when she passed away.

‘You see, your nan would come into the surgery and we’d joke and she would plan her funeral. I know that sounds odd, but she would. So I think the best thing is for me to tell you what she wants on this tape. And then you can do it all. She gave me a cheque as well, which I can give back to you. The main thing, though, is that she gets the Big Send Off that she wanted.

‘So, she wants it in the community centre, she’s very serious about this, apparently you were christened there. It was a right knees-up, she said. She’d like some of her old photos on the wall, she said. Ones where she looked nice, not frumpy or double-chinned and none where she doesn’t have any lipstick on. That’s really important, the lipstick bit. And drawings that your kids have done for her, she’d like them on the walls too. She loved them, she’d bring them in to the surgery and show everyone.

‘Food, she wants all her favourite things, proper ham sandwiches, she stressed the proper, if you get that cheapy thin stuff from the supermarket she will haunt you forever. And she wants pork pies, cold sausages, egg mayonnaise, but no fish, especially smoked salmon, she didn’t trust that, and absolutely no cucumbers, slimy green bastards she called them. Lots of bread and butter. Proper butter, not marge, but I think you know that.

‘Drink. She wants people to get legless. Cheap fizz and port, and Coca Cola out of the little bottles for kids. No beer, she said. She doesn’t care if men moan. She said it made them fart.’ I laugh. ‘Oh, and Jägerbombs if the budget allows. Do you Jägerbomb? It’s a shot of Jägermeister dropped into a small glass of Red Bull, if you haven’t come across them.

‘She wants dancing, she really wants dancing. Till dawn she said, or as close as you can get to dawn in a community centre full of pensioners. It has to be Rod Stewart and Tom Jones, that sort of thing…’ I swallow again.

‘So, I guess I’ll leave this with you. Take the tape and this machine and then you can play it back to remind yourself. Oh! Wow, can’t believe I forgot, there’s a dress code. She wants a dress code. It’s
Grease
. The film,
Grease
.

‘Anyway, so, I’m happy to organise all this for you, if you want, or help, but I’ve been told to steer clear of you. So, well, I don’t know what you want to do. But she really wants a shindig, Steve, she said “I had two registry office weddings, this is my big do.” It’s just a shame she won’t be there.’ I pause, and swallow again. ‘Although, I think she’ll be there, knocking back the port and making sure there’s not a slimy green bastard in sight.

‘So, goodbye, Steve. Oh and if you need me, I live above the kebab shop in Tiddlesbury. You can find me there.’

I press stop and exhale.

Oh, and Steve. I’m not saying that what you did messed me up, but it did take me eight years to sleep with another man. Oh, and when you kissed me that night, I thought I’d never kiss anyone else, I thought I’d found my happy ending. I still think about that…